


The Closet Case Job

by gaypiratedivorce, meronicavars



Series: Honour Among Thieves [1]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Bisexual Ross Barton, Canon-Typical Violence, Criminal AU, Explicit F/M Porn, Explicit M/M Porn, F/M, Grifter AU, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Robert Sugden, References to Assault, References to Stalking, Robert-Typical Homophobia, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypiratedivorce/pseuds/gaypiratedivorce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meronicavars/pseuds/meronicavars
Summary: With his left hand still resting firmly on the small of Chrissie’s back, Robert offers his right for the man closest to him to shake, and introduces himself: “Wentworth Taylor, pleasure to meet you.”Since before he can remember Robert has lived by a very simple philosophy. He wants, he takes. And he tends to want the things that are just out of his reach, the flowers that he has to sneak a hand through the fence to grab, the locks that he has to pick. If he was being honest with himself, Robert would have to admit that he just wants to see Aaron again.Or the one where Robert is running a con on the Whites, and Aaron showing up at Home Farm threatens to ruin all of his plans.
Relationships: Aaron Dingle/Robert Sugden, Liv Flaherty & Robert Sugden, Robert Sugden/Chrissie White, Ross Barton/Aaron Dingle
Series: Honour Among Thieves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042080
Comments: 175
Kudos: 291





	1. the outsider

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> [listen to The Closet Case Job's spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4YqiN1QlS1pyr5IkuAbkcL?si=EAPU0-jvSmazmcD-jp0Utg).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his left hand still resting firmly on the small of Chrissie’s back, Robert offers his right for the man closest to him to shake, and introduces himself: “Wentworth Taylor, pleasure to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we were trying to decide what robert's alias would be so i was like " _what does robert like....? prison break and taylor swift._ " 
> 
> and wentworth taylor was born.
> 
> —eris

_just because you know my name  
_ _doesn't mean you know my game_

— [ _The Outsider_ , MARINA ](https://open.spotify.com/track/45nqiqofZWW4NHbXVCK3u6?si=MFtqJJCZRe-YhwZq7UM4KQ)

###  **10 days to the wedding**

Chrissie's low raspy laughter carries over the voices and he can't help but turn his head. He finds her surrounded by men in expensive suits, champagne flute elegantly balanced between two fingers, the angle of her wrist and the sharp lines of her profile a picture to his eyes. Robert really has snatched himself quite a prize. Actually, _he_ is supposed to be playing up the trophy husband role. Well, trophy fiancé, for just another ten days.

He makes his way through the room easily, the crowd parting for him without any effort on his part. If Robert knows how to do something, it's to get people to do what he wants. He wants Chrissie's fake cheer to be replaced by a genuine smile, so he slips a hand around her waist, and Chrissie's eyes crinkle at the corners when she realizes it's him. 

"Wentworth!"

Robert kisses her cheek, intimate but still appropriate for their current audience, and Chrissie rewards him with that beautiful laughter of hers. With his left hand still resting firmly on the small of Chrissie's back, Robert offers his right hand for the man closest to him to shake, and introduces himself: 

"Wentworth Taylor, pleasure to meet you."

He puts on his most charming smile and goes all around the circle, working these suits like this is what he was put on the earth to do —work the stage, play his part, smile and nod, smile and nod. He steps back, to stand slightly behind Chrissie, out of the spotlight. She's the star tonight, he's just playing a supporting role. He thinks, looking at her, that he could be content with this. 

Dangerous thoughts accost him when he looks at Chrissie for too long. Stupid ideas, like turning this six-month con into a nice li'l long-term job, worming himself into the White family like a parasite, embezzling a couple million dollars and faking his death three years from now to go off to the Bahamas with a neat retirement fund. He has never felt this way about a mark. He has never felt this way about anyone. 

Robert finds most people boring, but Chrissie is anything but. She has a sharp humor, an unflinching sense of loyalty, and a hunger to her that Robert sees a lot of himself in. He sees the ring on her hand —stolen during a job years ago, but he told Chrissie that it was passed down in his family for generations, of course— and his heart swells a little. Chrissie White is proud and ambitious and unapologetic, and she is _his_. This possessiveness that coils in his gut and has his touch lingering on his fiancée's back, this is what love must be like. 

Chrissie is telling the suits all about their new investment, a nearby vineyard that had been on the downturn for a few years now, and will now undoubtedly thrive under the Whites' command. Of course, the family living there were welcome to remain on the property, free of rent of course, and they are now proud Home Farm employees, because Chrissie wants to give back to the community first and foremost, of course, of course. Robert smiles and nods, smiles and nods. 

His eyes fleet over the crowd, catching his soon-to-be father in law as he introduces Chrissie's son proudly to a flock of local women, who all coo delightedly at such a charming young man. If they only knew, Robert thinks, and has to make an effort not to roll his eyes. Every time he thinks too much about laying his bed here and enjoying a couple years of well-earned rest, the sight of Lachlan White stops him in his tracks. The kid is only seventeen, but Robert was already a seasoned criminal at that age, and he's started to suspect that Chrissie's son could grow much, much worse than Robert would ever dream to be. 

Robert won't let himself be scared away from the biggest prize of his career by a teenager, that's for sure. He has Lachlan under control —sometimes he even tells himself he's doing Chrissie a favor by hiding the things Lachlan does from her, almost convinces himself that he's keeping her son on a leash so she doesn't have to. They'll soon be family, and what's a little blackmail between family? 

"Wentworth, dear?" Chrissie's voice startles him back to attention, and the concern in her voice tells Robert his mask must have been slipping there. He smiles sweetly at her. 

"I'm sorry, I was looking for a waiter. You were saying?"

"Oh, nothing for you to worry about darling," she says, and then brings her lips close to his ear. "You just stand there and look pretty." And well, that's certainly something he can do. He grins and nods, feeling rewarded in the way Chrissie beams back at him before he returns to scanning the room.

He looks for the waiters' bow ties to make them out from the rest of the boring black suits, and spots a tall man holding a tray nearby. He squeezes Chrissie's waist softly as he mutters, "Let me get you another," into her ear and steals the empty champagne flute from her fingers. 

He turns around, looking for the waiter he's just spotted. There he is, standing with his back to a group of sleazy-looking local politicians. There are three flutes on his tray, and they clink against each other when he shakes with what looks like contained laughter. Robert realizes now that he's talking to someone, a shorter man that is mostly hidden from view by the waiter's broad back. Robert stops to shake hands with a richly dressed woman who makes a point to introduce herself by her title, then cuts towards the waiter. The man speaking to him is wearing a cheap black suit and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons open, and raises his eyebrows at the waiter in a way that Robert would describe as defiant. Now Robert is close enough that he can hear the waiter's words as he tugs at his shirt collar, and slows his step before he's even thought about it. 

"I hate bow ties. Can barely breathe," the waiter is saying, and Robert is dismayed to witness such unprofessionalism from his staff. Well, the Whites' staff, but he did most of the arrangements for the catering anyway, so Robert feels like he's entitled to some degree of authority. He can't quite make out the other man's bitten out response, and walks around the nearby murder of politicians to find a better eavesdropping spot. He catches the waiter's response as he approaches the pair of them slowly, something he can't hear and then "—take this off me earlier." 

"I'm working here," the other man grumbles.

"So am I n'all. But why not take a cheeky sojourn to the loo, babe?" 

Robert sees the shorter man snort. "Did you just say sojourn?"

"Word of the day. Broadening me horizons." The waiter makes a gesture with his chin, as if attempting to encompass the whole room, and then looks straight ahead, feigning indifference. Robert finds himself stepping closer, pushed by his own curiosity, straining to appear appropriately nonchalant while he looks at them out of the corner of his eye.

"You're an idiot," the shorter man mumbles, looking into the crowd instead of at the man at his side, but there is a smile on his lips. Robert sees something in that smile. It has danger written all over it. 

Robert is drawn to him like a moth to the flame, the words are out of his mouth before he can even think about them. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"

The waiter seems to straighten up a little, and the smirk on his face is swiftly replaced by a politely blank expression. He nods at Robert and lifts his tray up slightly, making the glasses clink. "No, no, just offering champagne to this gentleman." 

The man has a strong nose and a pattern of scars that spread across half his face, and Robert is sure that he didn't see him among the waiters setting up in the kitchen earlier. The other man's smile has disappeared, his face inexpressive as he grabs one of the champagne flutes and tilts it politely in Robert's direction. Robert has to make a physical effort to keep himself from watching him walk away. He looks at the waiter instead, picks up one of the two flutes left on his tray. 

"Is this a French or Californian champagne?" he asks, looking into the waiter's eyes for a trace of _something_. He wants to test a theory, but doesn't see a hint of hesitation on the man's face. 

"2002 Cristal Brut Rosé from Louis Roederer," he replies in what is possibly the worst French accent Robert has ever heard. Robert bought the champagne himself, so he knows that the waiter's response is correct —and could hardly be a guess. Robert would bet actual, hard-stolen money that he sees smugness on the man's face. "French, if that weren't obvious."

"No, I got that." He nods at the waiter and lets him take Chrissie's empty flute from him. "Thank you, uh," he searches the waiter's chest for a nametag, but soon remembers that they're not part of the uniform for tonight, and snatches the last flute from his tray, "and I'll take this one too."

He makes his way back to Chrissie, but struggles to slip back into his role. He's canvassing the dinner party like a museum he intends to rob, all of his senses on high alert now that he's caught a whiff of something —even if he doesn't know what that something is. The tall waiter is easy to follow around as he moves through the crowd, but he can't spot the shorter man anywhere. Chrissie is talking to him, and Robert knows that he's speaking back to her, but that's just him reading out of a script. His heart isn't in it. 

Then he spots him, and his stomach lurches. There he is, with his unbuttoned shirt collar, champagne flute grasped firmly in his left hand, standing confidently with his right in his front pocket. Robert is surprised to find him close to Lawrence, standing vaguely within the same area of conversation as the White patriarch and another cheaply dressed young man. The second man is wearing a blue suit that stretches at the arms and has a wide, contagious smile that clearly has Lawrence a little dazed. Robert strains to keep his face blank as he watches the scene, the grinning bloke looking at Lawrence with a kind of interest that Robert knows his bore of a father-in-law could never genuinely incite.

The first time Robert charmed a twenty off a stranger he was twelve, and he's been grifting his way through life ever since. If there is one thing he knows, one thing he understands instinctively, it's the art of lying. The man speaking to Lawrence has an open smile and a genuine laughter and a draw to him that clearly has Lawrence completely besotted, but Robert knows a liar when he sees one. He sees the young lad place a hand on Lawrence's upper arm when he laughs next, raucous laughter making him throw his head back, and watches the other man sip at his champagne indifferently. 

Robert mumbles something about checking on Lawrence, kisses Chrissie on the cheek, replaces his empty flute on a waiter's tray on the way. It's not the man with the scar, and now that he looks for him in the crowd again Robert can't find him. It makes him uneasy, but he's soon distracted by the sight of Lawrence honest-to-god blushing when the guy talking to him moves the hand from his arm to grip his shoulder. 

The other bloke looks away, gazing into the crowd, and Robert sees him take the champagne flute to his lips, but he doesn't drink. Robert is sure, so sure that he can see the man's mouth moving slightly behind the glass and, even if Robert can't see a comm in his right ear, that doesn't mean the man isn't wearing one. Robert's eyes are fixed on him, so much so that he nearly walks into a short round woman and ends up making a loud and effusive apology. When he looks back up at Lawrence and the two men, he finds a pair of blue eyes trained on him.

Lawrence has also spotted him, and Robert is surprised to see relief in his face —as Lawrence White rarely regards him with anything but contempt. Now he gestures for him to come closer, gasping out, "Wentworth, Wentworth," like a fish out of water. Robert approaches them with a smile ready on his face, getting back into character even as sharp eyes follow his every step. "Wentworth, this, this is—" 

"Danny, Danny O'Reilly," the young man with the friendly brown eyes and impossibly bright grin says, and he wraps Robert's hand in his and gives him a vigorous shake. It rattles Robert's joints and yet manages to come off as genuinely earnest and not some masculine power play, and fucking hell, Robert finds himself charmed even though he knows he's being played. Danny releases Robert from his grip and turns to his friend with a proud smile and pulls him closer with a hand on his upper arm. "And this is my partner, Ben." 

The other man shuffles closer, and Robert could swear that he sees the moment that he steps into his role. He gives Lawrence a polite smile and extends his hand as he grumbles, "Business partner. Nice to meet you," and finally meets Robert's eyes straight on as they clasp hands. Ben's hand is calloused from manual work, and the brief squeeze he gives Robert's hand tells him this is a man who often uses his strength to intimidate. Robert thinks, dismissively, that this little crew clearly has more brawn than brains.

They both pull back from the handshake quickly, while Danny elbows Lawrence like he's speaking with an old friend, leaning close to say conspiratorially, "He _wishes_ he was my husband. But selflessly, I decided we shouldn't bring romance into the office."

Ben with the blue eyes scoffs, looks down like he's embarrassed. "Portacabin," he mumbles into his champagne flute.

His _business_ partner shakes his head in dismissal and tells Lawrence, "Portacabin _office_." Then another touch on the shoulder, and Robert is sure that the hand he bashfully runs through his curly hair is meant to show off his arms. He finds himself looking at the other man, Ben, and sees him rolling his eyes at Danny, who is telling Lawrence, "Very professional, you'll see." 

Lawrence looks like he's about to have a heart attack —alas, Robert could only dream. The old man clears his throat. "Well, it sounds like Holey Scrap is well established."

Danny beams, and steps in front of Lawrence, broad back between the old man and the rest of the room. It's not a particularly smooth move but he pulls it off, and Robert doesn't need to see his face to know that the guy is looking intently into Lawrence's eyes as he speaks. "Yeah, exactly!" he says enthusiastically, and every gesture and hand movement is a new excuse to push further into Lawrence's personal space. "What I'm saying is: we're on our feet. It's just about expanding the business now, and moving outside of Yorkshire."

Robert tries not to laugh into his champagne when he sees Lawrence take a step back. This amateur right here is coming on too strong, and Robert half worries that he's about to witness a car crash. Poor old repressed Lawrence White probably hasn't had a man flirt with him since Churchill was Prime Minister. The old man clears his throat loudly. "And that's where I come in, I presume?"

Ben seems to realize that his _partner_ is fumbling the ball, and puts a hand on Danny's shoulder —Danny immediately steps back, settling next to him without hesitation. It's clear who's in charge. Robert knows that this kind of silent communication only exists between people who have been working together for a long time, and starts re-evaluating his first assessment of the pair. Ben has a gravitas to him, he gives a one-shouldered shrug and smiles just slightly as he says, "If it interests ya, you'd be a great help," and he manages to come off as both humble and slightly uninterested. Robert is impressed. 

Ben talks projections, last year's revenue, the state of the scrapping industry. Robert assumes that it's all bullshit, but the man's gruff voice and relaxed stance are convincing enough. Lawrence stops squirming like a slug near salt and, when Danny steps into his bubble again, he doesn't step back. Danny flashes the brightest possible grin, says, "Come on, Mr. White. We can help each other! You sell tractors, we take 'em apart!" and Robert can pinpoint the exact moment, the slight unfurrowing of his brow when the old man starts to give. 

"Well, I'd have to see what I'm buying into," Lawrence still tries to object, but it's a weak attempt. Robert can see the glint of triumph in Ben's blue eyes. 

"Sooo… you can pop over and Danny here," Ben slaps Danny's back for emphasis, pushing him one step closer to Lawrence, "can show you 'round the scrapyard."

But no, Robert is not about to let these third —well, maybe second— tier thieves make a move on his mark. Robert's got a nice thing going on with the Whites and, unlike Lawrence, he's not easily fooled. He steps in before Lawrence can respond. "Why don't I come as well, Lawrence? A second pair of eyes won't go amiss."

Ben's brow furrows and his shoulders square slightly as he starts, "That's not really—" but Robert doesn't let him get far.

"No, no, I insist. I would love —as much as Lawrence, I'm sure— to be involved with two bright enterprising young men like yourselves." He gives Ben his fakest smile. "How does tomorrow at 2 PM sound?"

For a long heart beat they just stare at each other, both sizing the other up. Then the man smirks, raises his eyebrows and juts his jaw in a way that can only be interpreted as a challenge. "Tomorrow at 2 PM sounds good."

They both look at Lawrence, who stammers out his agreement, too shaken by the unapologetic flirting to really pay attention to whatever is happening between Robert and Ben. Danny raises his near-empty flute and cheers, "Nice one, lads!" He raises his flute, takes a sip, and winks at Lawrence. "I think you'll be really impressed with Holey Scrap, Mr. White!"

Robert can't keep the smirk from his lips, and he finds a reflection of his own amusement on Ben's face. He holds Ben's gaze, drawls, "And then some." He sees something like recognition in the man's eyes. "Isn't that right, Lawrence?" 

Lawrence must detect a hint of mockery on Robert's face, because he tries to stand taller and look authoritative as he says, "For your sakes, gentlemen, I hope I'll like what I see."

Robert lifts the champagne flute to his lips, drops his voice low enough that only Ben could possibly catch it, and mutters into his drink, "I'd say he likes what he sees already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **incorrect the closet case job quotes:**
> 
> ross, pulling at his bow tie: it hurts my ross's apple.  
> aaron: for the last time, it's not named for each, individual man.


	2. can only be myself as somebody else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence is already starting to fidget in his seat, and Robert almost wishes that he could just tell the man he’s being played and be done with it. Too bad Wentworth isn’t smart enough to know that, and Robert is too true to his craft to break character —least of all for this pathetic old man. He’s still not going to let these losers game his mark, there’s no doubt of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we genuinely didn't think we would need to clarify that this is very much a robert/aaron fic after the first chapter but, given that this second chapter opens with 1600 words of chrissie white getting her salad tossed, we agreed it would be wise to make a statement. so yes, this is a robert/aaron story. that said, i entered a trance, fully blacked out, and when i awakened i found the first half of this chapter in the doc. so that is the reason why we tagged this "explicit f/m porn". enjoy.
> 
> —drea
> 
> not sorry tho, because chrissie deserves to get her pussy ate. god bless.
> 
> —eris

_anything you can lose i can lose better_

— [ _Rio_ , Mika ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2sy3zQ4guIdsgQ0xgxTmou?si=pLceD_CrT4SMp_yFiJ6eWw)

###  **9 days to the wedding**

The dream disappears as soon as he's aware of it, but the heat lingers. Robert's half-hard and breathing heavily into Chrissie's hair, the sweet smell of her shampoo intoxicating, the muscle of her thigh pliant where he's digging his fingers in. Still on the edge of slumber, the night starts to come back to him —the dinner a success, Chrissie as beautiful as a painting, everything was perfect. No, not perfect. Something out of place. Three men who didn't quite fit in. The scarred waiter, pretty boy cozying up to Lawrence, and blue eyes. The one that set off all of Robert's alarms. 

Robert opens his eyes, immediately squinting in the light, but the memory of the man is soon replaced by the delicate shape of Chrissie's ear. Robert kisses the crook of her neck and Chrissie stirs, letting out a raspy groan that makes his blood simmer, and presses back against him with unmistakable purpose. She mumbles a barely coherent good morning and her voice sends a tremor up his spine —Robert finds himself grinding against her, tugging at the strap of her nightgown with his teeth, and closes his eyes on instinct. And there he fucking is, smirking at Robert over the rim of his champagne glass. The blood freezes in his veins.

He startles to a sitting position and, before Chrissie can see the way his face has drained of all color, grabs her by the hips and pulls her close to him. She makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a scream, squeals out, "Wentworth!" in mock outrage even as she arches under his touch. She throws her head back, offers the curve of her neck to him. Robert's teeth graze up the sharp angle of her jawline, he presses wet kisses behind her ear, and when Chrissie gasps out a name, it's not his. 

He doesn't kiss her because Chrissie doesn't usually like to before they brush their teeth, not because he's scared that he'll see that _man_ when he closes his eyes. But no common criminal is about to mess up Robert's game, that's for damn sure. Ben poses no real threat to his position at Home Farm, and every moan and gasp he steals from Chrissie reassures him a little more. He pushes the nightgown up her hips, runs his thumbs up her stomach and wraps his hands around her sides as he sucks a bruise on the tender skin where Chrissie's neck meets her shoulder. She whines his name —though not _his_ name— and pushes at Robert's shoulder. "Wentworth, don't tease."

"You like it when I tease," he replies, giving her his cheekiest smile. She pouts up at him, that conceited rich girl pout that comes so natural to her. He bites the curve of her breast and feels the ripples of her laughter under his tongue. He can't help but draw it out, to try and steal every last gasp from this perfect woman, to rejoice in every luxury of this perfect life. Robert knew from the first moment Chrissie looked at him with that superior air of hers that he wanted her almost as much as he wanted her family's money and, now that he's less than two weeks from securing both, he's not going to let anything get in the way of his perfect crime. 

Robert begins kissing down her chest and Chrissie pushes him away so she can pull the nightgown over her head, then keeps him there a second longer with her hands on his shoulders. Robert knows he's gotten more tan since he arrived at Home Farm, wonders if Chrissie is able to tell that the patch of lighter skin on his navel is a tattoo he got laser removed. When she runs her nearly square nails down his chest, he puts the thought aside. He says, "I love you," and he means it.

Her response is cut off by laughter when he bites her stomach, and then he's pulling her underwear down her legs; her ankle rests on his shoulder and she's not laughing anymore. He kisses up her calf, the soft crook behind her knee, the stretchmarks on the inside of her thighs. And then he hovers, grin slowly taking over his face, looking up at her as he waits for her to lose her patience. It doesn't take long.

"Wentworth," she warns, her voice low and throaty, and he bites the bone jutting out at her hip. Chrissie cranes her neck to glare at him, and groans when she sees the smugness on his face. "I am going to kill you." 

Sometimes Robert thinks about what Chrissie would do if she ever found out who he really is. He loves her because there's an edge to her, a ruthlessness that he sees himself in. So he finally puts his mouth on her, wordlessly promising Chrissie with his tongue and his hands that he'll do his very best to ensure they don't have to find out just how sharp she can be. Robert licks a broad stroke up her vulva and she bucks against his grasp.

Chrissie whimpers when he pushes his tongue into her. Robert knows her body as well as he does his favorite high security safe box, knows what her every sigh and moan means. In the same way he would rest his body against a wall to comfortably listen as the tumbles of a safe click open, he shifts to rest his weight on his elbows and Chrissie's ankles cross behind his back. Almost like the first time he ate her out, with the unmissable difference that Chrissie had been propped up on her father's office desk that night, heels catching on the fabric of his suit as he pushed two fingers in. Now there's no whispering and no muffled moans, Chrissie bites out his name when he pushes in and up, whatever she's about to say next becomes a high-pitched whine when he teases her clit with the tip of his tongue. He thinks that they should fuck in Lawrence's office again, once he's officially part of the White clan. If he's lucky —he pulls away just long enough to watch himself slip a third finger into her, and he _does_ feel lucky— Lawrence will walk in on them and die from a heart attack.

Robert's got a very clear endgame in his mind. He's going to threaten Lachlan into leaving, leverage his relationship with Chrissie to gain as much access as possible to the family's assets, and spend as much time as he can with Chrissie, doing exactly this. When he finally pushes his pinky in and she curses, brusquely digs her fingers into Robert's hair, he's the one to moan. She pulls at the hair at his nape, then pushes him closer. He goes willingly. 

It's only when he tries to relieve the strain on his neck and shoulder, and shifts his body against the mattress in the process, that Robert becomes fully aware of just how hard he is. It hits him like a blow to the back of the head and finally everything else is gone, his endgame and the con and the feeling of impending doom that hangs around him at all times. It's just Chrissie under his hands, on his tongue, pulling desperately at his hair as he replaces his mouth on her clit with his thumb so he can tease her vulva with his tongue. The thrusts of his still-clothed hips against the mattress match the tempo of his fingers inside Chrissie, but it barely gives him any relief. That's okay, though. Right now, completely lost to sensation, brain empty of all thought, the last thing he wants is relief. 

Chrissie's thighs tremble over Robert's shoulder, her body arches off the bed. Her nails dig and drag up Robert's scalp and he loses his composure for a moment, stills his hand and buries his face against the inside of Chrissie's thigh to stifle his groan. Just a second, but Chrissie gets impatient, tugs at his hair, and when he puts his mouth on her again it's with intent. Robert grazes her clit with his teeth before he finally moves again, now sucking and licking at her clit alternatively as his fingers press up inside her. He watches her through his eyelashes, the nails from her other hand digging into her own breast, her head thrashing against the silk pillows. This time, when he closes his eyes, all he sees is black.

He keeps at it even as she tightens around his fingers, as she bites down on her own fist to muffle a curse or a scream, until finally Chrissie pulls sharply at the hair on his nape to still him and he can't bite back the pained whimper that escapes his throat. He opens his eyes to find Chrissie looking at him through heavy eyelids, her chest rising and falling as she breathes erratically. 

When she tugs softly at his hair and pouts, Robert slips his fingers out of her slowly, then shifts his wrist and pushes two back in. Chrissie whines, closes her eyes. She gasps with every movement as Robert shifts to his knees, guides her thighs to wrap around his waist instead, and finally rests his weight on one elbow. For a moment he just hovers, marveling in the minute twitches of her face as his fingers move inside her, aches to kiss her but guesses she would turn her face away. 

Her eyes are still closed when she licks her lips and asks coarsely, "Aren't you going to kiss me, Wentworth?" 

So he does.

* * *

It was the appearance of wealth that allowed Robert to worm his way into the Whites' social circle, and the car often helped him sell the part. It was stolen, of course, but Robert had thoroughly scrapped and scrubbed anything that could identify it. And well, maybe he _is_ being a little cocky by driving it around Emmerdale when he nicked it from a rich arsehole who lives not two hours away, but Wentworth Taylor is a rock-solid alias, and the papers for the car are flawless. He knows, because he forged them himself.

Lawrence is already starting to fidget in his seat, and Robert almost wishes that he could just tell the man he's being played and be done with it. Too bad Wentworth isn't smart enough to know that, and Robert is too true to his craft to break character —least of all for this pathetic old man. He's still not going to let these losers game his mark, there's no doubt of that. About a block ahead he sees the sign that marks the entrance to the scrapyard. 

The two blokes appear in sight, standing shoulder to shoulder amidst hills and mountains of scrap metal. Robert's tires blow up a cloud of dust in their direction when he purposefully makes a brusque turn to park. Dirt settles on his formerly shiny black dress shoes as he steps out of the car, but Ben is scowling at him, so Robert feels it was worth it.

"Gentlemen!" Lawrence calls in an affected deep voice, and Robert tries not to laugh at the weak display of confidence. But Danny is good, clearly knows that he shouldn't let anything wound Lawrence's fragile pride. He bounces on his feet like an excited child, and positively beams at Lawrence as he goes to shake his hand. Unlike the friendly but firm handshake that he gave Robert last night, Danny's broad hands wrap almost delicately around Lawrence's, and Robert averts his gaze so the old man won't find his eyes when he looks at him for help. 

The problem is that when Robert looks away from Lawrence and Danny, he finds Ben. He immediately feels like his mask is giving under the man's sharp eyes —he is sure that he's made a misstep somewhere, that this stranger has seen through his web of lies. There is no other explanation for the way his whole body immediately goes into fight or flight mode. Robert tries to hide his unease —thinks Ben may be able to smell it, thinks he has the stance of a guard dog. Robert has always been a little nervous around dogs.

Somewhere just out of his range of vision, Danny is telling Lawrence to, "Get stuck in, Mr. White," and Robert takes that as an excuse to escape Ben's sharp stare. He sees Danny's hand land confidently between Lawrence's shoulder blades, and the young man says something Robert can't hear as he guides Lawrence towards the portacabin. The door closes behind them, and Robert turns around to find Ben leaning against _his_ car, one muddy boot propped up against the door on the driver's side, arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing a horrendous safety vest and a soft gray sweater underneath, and Robert can't help but notice how the fabric clings to his arms. He feels the urge to loosen up his tie —doesn't act on it, obviously. It's been a really long time since Robert has been in a fight.

Unlike Lawrence, Robert is very good at faking bravado, so he steps up to the guy, and feels particularly grateful that he makes up in height for what he lacks in muscle mass. "I know what you're doing," he warns, doing his very best to stare Ben down. 

Obviously unimpressed, Ben continues to slump against Robert's car. He just tilts his chin up ever so slightly and raises his eyebrows —trying to play dumb, no doubt. "And what's that then?"

Robert rolls his eyes. He knows that the bloke knows he's been made. "Oh, come on. Your waiter boyfriend at the party and whatever _this_ " (he gestures with his hand, at the literal piles of garbage surrounding them) "is. I'm not an idiot, I know you're conning him."

Ben actually has the cheek to scoff at him. "We're not conning him," he says, and pulls off amused pretty well, but Robert can still see that it doesn't reach his eyes. "We've got a business and we need help. Thought you wanted to invest too." Robert almost laughs.

"You know, for a grifter you're a terrible liar." He takes one more step, the tip of his dress shoe bumping against Ben's boot. "Usually stay in the background, do ya?"

Ben straightens up suddenly, and Robert finds himself regretting the step he just took. His voice is low, intimate, as he now pushes into Robert's space. "Think what you want, mate."

Robert is surprised to find himself growing angry. He could run circles around these three, he reminds himself. They are not worthy of his anger. And yet Ben raises his eyebrows defiantly at him, and there it is, the fight or flight response. His skin tingles, his hands sweat, he wants to bolt. But Robert is not about to just hand over his mark to this _goon_. Ben is clearly surprised by Robert's shove, and actually stumbles back into the car. Robert grabs him by his vest before he can react, and hopes that he's playing one hell of a role. "Don't need to think," he pushes through his teeth, feels Ben start to shake off the surprise and wishes he had a god to pray to. "I _know_ a play when I see one." 

Ben chuckles (chuckles! like Robert's making some kind of joke!) and when he pushes almost playfully at Robert's shoulder, Robert knows he's not being taken seriously. He steps back but tugs at Ben's vest, and Ben grabs one of his forearms. For a tense second he just stays there and tightens his grasp. The slightest twist tells Robert that if he doesn't let go now, he _will_ end up with a broken arm. So Robert lets go, and Ben does too.

He tries to play it off, opens his arms and spreads his hands in a silent offering of peace. It's not the first time in his life that Robert has had to appeal to honor among thieves, though many a wanted criminal must still resent him for the stabs in the back. It takes Ben another second to unclench his fists.

He finally shoves his hands deep in his pockets, and Robert does the same. Ben squints in the afternoon sun. "Real stand up of ya to look out for your father-in-law—"

"Not my father-in-law yet," Robert corrects without thinking. He instantly wants to swallow back his words, but they are gone. Ben shrugs.

"But you're well in, eh?" 

Robert scoffs. As if he's gonna tell him anything. "And you're treading on my toes," he replies instead. Ben gives him that challenging raise of eyebrows, and Robert wants to do something insane, like throw a punch at him, like drop the con and disappear. He swallows to get rid of the lump in his throat. "I know I'm good at playing the fool but, unlike Lawrence, I'm not one," he says —and he knows that he's very good at faking confidence. He's making an inhumane effort to keep his stance relaxed under the man's penetrating stare. "You can't out-con me, Ben."

The man frowns and, after appearing lost in thought for a moment, says, "Aaron."

"What?"

"M'name's Aaron," he says, and Robert was expecting anything but that, anything but the easy shrug and low, relaxed, "and I don't see why we can't just talk about this."

"Talk about what?" he asks, and he's not playing dumb, he's got fucking whiplash. 

"We make a deal, my crew gets ours, and you continue whatever shady long con you're playing."

Robert feels actually affronted. "Shady?"

Ben —no, not Ben, Aaron— shakes his head and it's not just anyone that can make Robert _feel_ laughed at. "We're in the same business. You know a play when you see it, and I know shady."

He finds himself scoffing again, indignant, and takes a hand out of its pocket to gesture in the portacabin's direction. "Not nearly as shady as you and your lad barking up the sexually confused tree."

"Shady, maybe, but you're marrying the daughter." Aaron takes his hands out of his pockets too, folds his arms over his chest again. Robert clears his throat, and now there is genuine amusement in Aaron's voice. "You sure we're not the smarter ones here?"

Robert remembers Chrissie's nails digging into his back and thinks that yes, he's damn sure. He smirks at Aaron. "Well, tried it on with Lawrence, but I'm straight. Obviously."

Aaron raises his eyebrows again, but there's no challenge behind it and Robert doesn't quite understand what the look means. "Obviously. Look," Aaron steps closer to Robert this time and, though he keeps his arms crossed, there's no furrow in his brow and his shoulders are relaxed. His voice is a murmur, so low Robert has to tilt his head closer to catch it. "...we can help each other. You know your way around posh folk. We could use that."

Robert hears the portacabin door opening behind his back. Aaron takes a step back, and Robert brusquely pulls out his burner, tells him to type in his number. Aaron's fingers move quickly as Robert says, "We'll meet up tomorrow somewhere on neutral ground." He accepts the phone back, quickly makes it disappear. Before he can think better of it he adds, "You can bring your crew, if you want."

Lawrence approaches them smiling, Danny trailing behind, and Robert finds himself dying to know what just happened on the other side of that door. He can't imagine Danny pulling the same move on Lawrence as Robert pulled on Chrissie, and doesn't want to wonder whether Lawrence can still get it up without pharmaceutical assistance. Shuddering to himself, he sets such thoughts aside and smiles back at the old man as Lawrence says, "Well then, let's meet up in a couple days with a solicitor to look over the paperwork."

"That's mint, mate," Danny says, and Robert is sure his whole face freezes in shock when he sees Danny pull Lawrence into a hug and, most shockingly, sees Lawrence reciprocate. They step apart after a second, but Danny grabs Lawrence by the shoulders and tells him, smiling broadly, "You won't regret it."

Robert feels Aaron settle by his side, close enough that Robert hears him mumble, "Looks like it's all in hand, dunnit?"

Robert wipes the surprise off his face and turns to head for his car, telling Aaron dryly as he walks by, "We'll be speaking soon then, won't we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, we believe robert is a misogynist. yes, we believe he eats pussy like a champ. two things can be true at once.


	3. allies or enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He both expects and dreads to see Aaron with his crew. Yesterday he spoke without thinking, more scared by the prospect of meeting Aaron alone than he was about facing off against three blokes who could clearly beat him unconscious if they wanted to. Yeah, he fucked up —hence the gun. Still, Robert’s stomach turns when he sees them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has everything: ross barton, an axe,
> 
> —eris

_the words i speak are wildfires and weeds  
_ _they spread like some awful damn disease_

— [ _Allies or Enemies_ , The Crane Wives ](https://open.spotify.com/track/54vgfSw1eOMiypSfatl38M?si=fZoez-I5RReULOIyUfZMnA)

###  **8 days to the wedding**

Robert looks at himself in the rearview mirror, takes one hand off the steering wheel to run it through his hair. He remembers doing the same the first time he drove up to Home Farm, fixing his tie as he stepped into the role of Wentworth Taylor. Now he's got an expensive but not flashy blue suit on, his shirt collar undone, no tie. Nothing to do with the fact that he struggles for breath every time Aaron is around, of course, because he doesn't. He doesn't. 

They're meeting at a barn that could just as easily be the one where Robert spent his years growing up, but he searches within himself and finds no nostalgia, no longing. The person he was then doesn't exist anymore. Wentworth Taylor has never shoveled piles of manure, never snapped a chicken's neck with his bare hands. But he isn't that man, either, of course. Unlike the wealthy airhead he plays, Robert Sugden has a lot of past. 

He drives the car to a stop, at an angle from the barn's open door, and reaches down to pull the gun from under his seat. He keeps it loaded and clean even though it's been years since he's last had to fire it, but its weight always feels foreign in his hand. If he was one to speak in maxims —if he had anyone to share them with— Robert would say a grifter only needs to fire a gun when they fuck up. He checks the safety, opens the door, and tucks the .38 into the back of his trousers as he steps out of the car.

It smells of freshly moved earth and hay, of play-wrestling his brother in the mud, of kissing his brother's girlfriend against the wall of the stables, of screaming matches with his dad under the rain. Robert takes a deep breath, locks the memories away, rolls his neck. He walks into the barn confidently, the world his stage.

He both expects and dreads to see Aaron with his crew. Yesterday he spoke without thinking, more scared by the prospect of meeting Aaron alone than he was about facing off against three blokes who could clearly beat him unconscious if they wanted to. Yeah, he fucked up —hence the gun. Still, Robert's stomach turns when he sees them. Aaron with a black hoodie, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, mumbling something into Danny's ear while he keeps his eyes on the entrance. Robert is sure that Danny could look threatening if he wanted, but he most definitely doesn't now, laughing with child-like glee at whatever Aaron is telling him. On Aaron's other side, strewn over what looks like the only chair in the place, their partner has a frown on his face and an axe on his lap. 

Robert sees it and, before he can tell himself not to be an idiot, pulls out his gun. 

The man jumps to his feet. 

Robert releases the safety. 

The man takes two steps forward.

Danny, no longer smiling, rushes to cut between them, stops his partner with a hand to his chest. The bloke's grasp on the axe doesn't relax, and Robert doesn't lower his gun. Danny is still looking nervously between the two of them, and Robert realizes after a moment that Aaron has taken his partner's place in the chair, watching the scene like it's a particularly boring late night rerun. Robert is more looking at him than at the man with the axe when he says, praying that the panic doesn't show in his voice, "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to bring an axe to a gunfight?"

The scarred bloke takes another step, pushing Danny closer to Robert, and it takes all of Robert's willpower to stand his ground. Gesturing with the axe like it weighs nothing at all, the man replies, "Well, maybe you shouldn't bring a gun to an axe fight."

"Ross, shut up," Aaron bites out. Robert sees the bloke —Ross, then— twist his face into a sneer, watches as his shoulders finally slump and his hands relax around the handle of the axe. Behind him, the chair screeches against the floor, but Aaron hasn't gotten up. A quick glance shows Robert he just seems to have made himself more comfortable in his seat, one ankle resting on the opposite thigh, hoodie clinging to his arms over his broad chest. It pisses Robert off. 

Danny, who is still physically stopping Ross from getting closer to Robert, gives them both a tentative smile, looks from one to the other as he says, "Hey, hey, we're not here to fight. We're here to negotiate."

Robert scoffs, but he barely spares Danny a glance, struggling to keep his attention on the madman with the axe when Aaron is right there, at the corner of his field of vision, looking at him like he's some sort of buffoon. Robert tightens his grip on the gun. "I don't negotiate with idiots."

"Fine," Aaron says, and when he stands up, Robert can't help but aim the gun at him. "Then negotiate with me." He crosses the distance in three steps, places an arm on his partner's back. The way that Aaron leans close to the bloke and mutters, "Ross, put the axe down," makes Robert's stomach lurch. He aims his revolver back at Ross' face.

"He's still pointing a gun at me," Ross points out, and gestures in his direction axe in hand, much to Danny's dismay, who steps back before he can get hit with the butt of the axe.

Aaron rolls his eyes, sighs, then addresses Robert again. "Can we all put our weapons away?"

Robert finds his voice is strained by anger, can't even explain why Aaron's casual dismissal infuriates him so much. "Not until I know no one's armed," he spits, and the hand that he's holding the gun with doesn't shake, it doesn't shake. 

"I ain't letting him frisk me," Ross growls, but he does step back and places the axe down, propping it up against the now empty chair. 

"Then strip," Robert bites out, but now that he's not in immediate danger of getting a limb chopped off, finally starts lowering his gun. 

Not much, though. Ross mockingly tells him, "Oh, you want a show," and Robert can't help but aim at his face again. Doesn't seem to really faze the bloke, who smirks at him and pulls the hoodie over his head in one swift motion. Aaron mutters something that sounds like a curse. 

Their partner, Danny, pulls off his puffy vest and lifts his plaid shirt just enough to show he's got nothing under it, turns to let him see there's no gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and then back to show Robert his empty hands. "I'm Adam, by the way, since we're using real names now."

Robert clicks the safety back on, but keeps the gun by his side. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but the situation leaves a little to be desired."

Danny —actually Adam— chuckles. "No one's arguing with that, mate." He appears completely unconcerned with being intimidating, standing on one foot to pull at his leg and showing there are no weapons hidden under his trousers either. A few steps to the side, his dickhead of a partner is pulling off his undershirt to flaunt a bare torso that's almost as threatening as the axe was. Robert likes to think he's pretty confident in his masculinity, but he isn't so sure right now. 

He looks away from Ross with exaggerated derision, and his eyes land on Aaron. Aaron, who has his arms crossed again, black hoodie still zipped up. Moving with a lot more ease now that he's got the safety on, Robert gestures with the gun in his direction. "And you?"

Aaron actually scoffs, raises his eyebrows at him. "I can kill you with me bare hands, mate. Don't need a gun or owt."

It sounds, it feels true enough. Robert's heart skips a beat. He's not sure he can call what he feels fear. Sure, every hair on his body stands on end and sure, he feels a shiver down his spine but rather than flee, he desperately wants to step closer. Get up in Aaron's face, do something reckless like punch him or kiss him. Robert scoffs at the thought —and then he really scoffs, and shoves the gun back into the waist of his trousers like he's dismissing Aaron's threat, like he doesn't feel vaguely out of breath, tight inside his own skin. He's angry at himself and angry at Aaron when he spits out, "Lawrence is _my_ mark," takes one step forward, says through clenched teeth, "so you better step out or I'll blow your set-up."

A still very shirtless Ross steps in front of him, which does nothing to quell the anger bubbling inside Robert. Neither does his smug little smirk as he says, "Mate, we didn't even know you was running your own con 'til you let it slip."

"You—" Robert stammers. "You what?"

Ross lets out a dry laugh, and Robert desperately wishes he hadn't put the gun away. "You think you're so slick, but you all but told Aaron yesterday you're conning the Whites."

He— Robert finds himself gaping, quickly washes all expression off his face. "Right," he bites out. No way, he thinks, no way Aaron didn't know. "Fine," he adds next, making time, trying to regain his composure. He had been sure that Aaron —Ben, yesterday— had made him too. The look at the party, it was recognition. Wasn't it? "Let's talk about this," Robert says, changing the subject as if he hasn't just made a fool of himself, and makes a vague hand gesture in the air between them, "but put your clothes back on."

"You're the one who wanted 'em off us in the first place," Ross says, and folds his arms over his chest in a clear attempt to show off. Ross is roughly his same height, so Robert has no real excuse for the way his gaze drifts down. His eyes snap back up when Ross says, smirking, "See summat you like?" and Robert doesn't want to look at his mouth either, finds his bright eyes mocking him, feels heat on the back of his neck. 

"Just get dressed, Ross," Aaron says, placing a hand on Ross' bare shoulder; and him stepping back into his space doesn't make Robert feel any less unnerved. His hands are sweating, he can't take his eyes away from Aaron's hand on Ross' skin.

"Of course, I _am_ taken," Ross says, smiling cheekily, and doesn't make any movement to get dressed. "Sorry, uh, what was it?" he asks, and unfolds one arm to gesture vaguely in Robert's direction, giving him a dismissive little sneer. " _Wentworth._ "

Robert buries his hands into his pockets, tries not to slouch his shoulders and all he manages to do is make a show of how tense he is. He feels like a fucking amateur. "If you don't want to work with me, please, just say," he starts, but Ross swiftly interrupts him. 

"I _don't_ wanna work with ya, but since you and Aaron _both_ spilled the beans," Ross turns his head to look at Aaron, and the hand on his shoulder finally lets go. Aaron folds his arms over his chest and scoffs, but Ross ignores him and continues, "—the best we're gonna get is mutually assured destruction."

Robert wants to hit him. He won't, because he also doesn't want to die, but fuck, he really wants to. Instead he steps up into the bloke's personal space, gets in his face, snarls at him, "You're stealing _my_ con!"

Ross shrugs, clearly unimpressed. "No, mate, we're _stealing_ a £20, 000 investment and anything else we can get out of him." This close up Robert can see the places where the scarring on Ross' face meets his hairline, the glint of amusement that flickers in his eyes. The man makes a quick hand-waving gesture with his hand and says, "In and out in under two weeks. _You're_ getting stuck in for life like a right mug." Robert scowls at that. "If you grass, you will lose a lot more than what our crew even stands to gain. So, you help us or neither of us do this job, you understand me?"

Robert is almost huffing out in anger at the end of this little speech, positively sure that this Ross is the most annoying bloke he has ever met. He has half a mind to pull out the gun again, as aware as he is of what that would mean. He knows, god, he knows Ross is right and he only has so many cards to play right now. But he's fuming, hurt in his pride but still trying to save face, and for a second all he can do is hold Ross' stare. 

Robert opens his mouth to speak, Ross' face falls at the same time. He gapes, looks at Aaron, and Robert takes half a second to realize that the three men are reacting to something. At the edge of Robert's vision, Adam is taking a hand to his ear as a smile spreads over his face. At Ross' side, Aaron casts his gaze heavenwards. "What just happened?" Robert asks.

"Someone's gonna have to clean their mouth out with soap later on, is what," Adam says, still smiling. He throws Ross' shirt at the man's face, and doesn't offer any further explanations.

Aaron takes a step back, breaking away from their little circle, and mumbling into the air, "Liv, I swear to God…" Robert sees him cross his arms again. "Liv. Butt out."

A moment later Ross grumbles, "It's _not_ easy!" while his head is inside his shirt, pulls it down, frees his face and continues saying —presumably into his earpiece— "Top of the range this."

Adam throws Robert a genuinely apologetic look and pitches in with, "How are you, Liv?"

"Don't encourage her," Aaron snaps, and takes his hand to his ear. "We're turning off comms now."

They take off and pocket their earpieces with the practiced motions of people who have done this dozens, hundreds of times. Robert is out of the loop and the three men are clearly trying to regain their balance after the unexpected interruption, so he takes the chance. "So, who's Liv?"

"No one," Aaron barks back, at the same time that Adam replies, 

"Hacker," and Ross points his thumb at Aaron and says, 

"This one's mardy sister."

"Ross," Aaron bites out, snarling like a mad dog. Ross doesn't seem much more intimidated by him than he does by Robert. 

"Oh, what's one more thing to add to the growing list of shit we shouldn't tell other grifters, but have somehow managed to tell pretty boy here in less than 36 hours?" Ross asks, and Aaron doesn't seem to have any reply for that. Robert is sure that this is the most insane conversation of his entire criminal career. 

"So we're proper set on the mutually assured destruction, eh?" he asks, to get the discussion back in its lane but also because he's not all that sure he hasn't lost track yet.

"Your funeral, mate," Ross replies. Robert clicks his tongue, tilts his head. He doesn't want to be the one to give, doesn't want to break this feeble ceasefire either.

"So, what is this…" he starts, pauses, decides to push just for the fun of it. "...the closet case job?"

"Old queer on the hill job," Ross shoots back immediately, mean grin taking over his face. Adam cringes, says, 

"Mate, don't," his words overlapping with Aaron's low and biting, 

"Ross, shut up."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ross exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically and fully giving Robert his back to turn and look at Aaron. "Have I not proven I like dick enough?" he asks, and Robert has an inkling that these are lines that have been read out many times before. "Are my blowjob skills not up to par?"

Robert sees Aaron's frustration written plainly in his tense posture, the hand pressed to his temple, the twist of his mouth. He would usually be delighted at his own gift for sowing chaos, but right now he just feels very, very short of breath. He's relieved when Aaron next speaks. 

"I'm bored of this," he says, dry. He sounds genuinely tired, and doesn't even spare Robert a glance. "Can we just move on, please?"

"Look, babe, fuck…" Ross says, switching off the bravado so fast it leaves Robert reeling. "I'll make it up to ya later, yeah?"

"This is not the time or the place," Adam mumbles, looking at his partners sourly, and Robert can only feel grateful that he won't see Aaron and Ross kiss and make up. (He thinks grateful is not the right word, but quickly pushes the thought aside.)

"Right, well," Robert says loudly, and gets Ross to turn away from Aaron and all three men to look at him, "if your lovers' tiff is quite done, I'd like to speak to Aaron." He throws Adam a glance, glares at Ross. "Alone."

"No," Ross says before Robert's even closed his mouth. "No way."

Robert barely spares Ross a look, addresses Aaron instead, making sure his words are dripping with condescension. "He your boyfriend or your guard dog?"

Their brittle truce crumbles so fast Robert almost doesn't manage to duck out of the way. Ross' swing catches the air where Robert's nose had just been, Aaron curses through his teeth, Adam scrambles to grab Ross' arm. Robert stumbles backwards, flails awkwardly to find his balance, sees Aaron make a clear cut-it-out motion with his hand. Before Robert has even begun to gather the pieces of his dignity, Adam is dragging Ross out of the barn.

Ross barks out a truly astounding amount of curses and threats on his way out, and Robert is pretty sure that he doesn't want to meet his bite. Robert turns to watch them go, just in case the madman manages to rid itself of his partner's grip and lunges at him. The gate swings closed and, somewhere at Robert's back, Aaron says, "Winding him up won't help your case, y'know."

Robert turns back around to find him closer than expected, sunlight from the tall windows shining from behind him and obscuring his face. "He's protective," Robert says, meeting Aaron's gaze, and shrugs. "I suppose I can admire that."

In the shade, Aaron's eyes look black, Robert can't quite read his expression. "I'm not his to protect."

"Does he know that?" he asks before he can think better of it. Aaron tilts his head, doesn't respond, but he schools any emotion out of his expression before Robert can be sure of whether he frowns or not. 

After a silence that stretches a second too long, Aaron changes the subject. "At least I have a crew. How do you get by on your own?"

Robert takes affront. "I've managed so far," he assures Aaron, and gestures at himself like his clothes still have their price tags on. 

The bloke nods slightly, as if conceding Robert's point. "It's a good identity, I'll give you that. Liv didn't find a single crack." He trails off, lets Robert savor the compliment before adding, "If you hadn't said anything, we wouldn't be here now."

Robert still hasn't stopped reeling from that fact —that he had misread the signs, that he had run his mouth like an amateur. He doesn't want to talk about it, so he derails the conversation. "Lawrence doesn't like me. Doesn't think I'm good enough for Chrissie." 

Aaron scoffs, switches his weight from one foot to the other and Robert can finally see his face in the light again. He's got that look in his eyes that makes Robert feel see-through, the look Robert thought meant Aaron had him made. "Is he wrong?" 

"Yes, he is. I love Chrissie," he argues without thinking, and is surprised to find the words taste true. "I lie about a lot, but I'm not lying about that."

Aaron raises his eyebrows, clearly skeptical. "Too bad you're all set to break her heart one day then, eh?" 

This wasn't the direction Robert was trying to take their conversation in, and he decides to drop the subject before it gets away from him. "If I saved Lawrence from making the mistake of investing in your ersatz scrapyard," he says sweetly, softly, and takes one step closer to Aaron, "he'd trust me."

They are so close Aaron has to tilt his chin up to hold his gaze, and it makes Robert feel dizzy. "Then prove to him it's a good investment," he counters. His voice is lower now, clearly matching Robert's. Usually he'd take it as a sign he's setting the tone, get comfortable. But he's still on edge, sure that Aaron is simply offering him a small win to soothe his wounded pride. Aaron smirks, nearly whispers in the ever-narrower space between them, "He'll be on your side if you're on ours." 

Robert steps back because otherwise he would have to step forward and that could only end in disaster. He sighs, hopes Aaron can't hear the shudder in his breath. He needs to get the fuck out of here before he does something he can't take back. "I won't help you," he says first, because he's still trying to save face. Aaron looks amused, but doesn't interrupt. "But I won't mess things up for you either," Robert concedes. The smile on Aaron's face seems to become more genuine. Robert can't end things on a positive note, of course. "Just make sure your boyfriend stays out of my way." 

"He's not m'boyfriend," Aaron corrects, but there's no heat in it. Robert sees something in his face, but he just can't get a read on him. 

"Like I care," Robert spits back, and turns to walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought robert was actually an intelligent, sharp, smooth criminal? you thought wrong. 
> 
> robert sugden is a stupid idiot, and also a homophobe. 
> 
> —drea


	4. don't wanna fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn’t take Robert much effort to plant the idea of an impromptu visit to Holey Scrap in Lawrence’s mind. He can sow doubt and distrust in people’s minds like no other, and it wasn’t hard to poke some holes into the bullshit profit projections that _Danny and Ben_ had sent them anyway. Lawrence is now at the wheel, fully convinced that he’s the one running this show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if y'all were wondering what liv says when she interrupts the _negotiation_ in chapter three, eris actually wrote it out and it had me cackling out loud, so i felt i needed to share. she says, " _i wanna talk to this cunt._ "
> 
> no liv this week, sadly, but it's gonna be a lot of robert and ross, which has become my favorite dynamic while writing this fic. enjoy! —drea
> 
> liv also says " _it's not my fault your frequency is so easy to hack into_ " which is what has ross saying " _it's not easy!_ "
> 
> ross barton is my king. —eris

_attacking, defending  
_ _until there's nothing left worth winning_

— [ _Don't Wanna Fight_ , Alabama Shakes ](https://open.spotify.com/track/51LcPhaclbiR8EAyC76M2L?si=Xrqe5OlTTuOv6FtiWMbPmw)

###  **7 days to the wedding**

Robert is trying to keep his mind busy, singing along to the pop song on the radio where he knows the lyrics and humming along where he doesn't. He mumble-sings, "I can't help that I need it all," drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He's left Chrissie and Lachlan shopping together after a lunch out in town, and he's looking forward to one of his favorite past-times: sitting on Lawrence's desk chair and drinking his father-in-law's most expensive liquor with his shoes propped on a pile of contracts. The song changes, a saxophone riff fills the car as Robert takes the turn and sees Home Farm appear in the distance. But rather than satisfaction, the sight fills him with dread. 

He hasn't been able to stop replaying yesterday's negotiation, if it could even be called that. He keeps counting off all of the ways in which he could have prevented that absolute car crash from happening. And sure, he fucked up, but ultimately, the problem is Aaron. It's Aaron's fault, because Robert can't get a read on him, because he clearly thinks himself so much better than Robert, because Robert feels off-kilter when he's around. 

The gate to the Home Farm estate is open, which isn't unusual on a weekday, as trucks come and go from the estate even when the family isn't around. Robert drives up the gravel path at walking speed, shifts gears swiftly and stops in front of the house. There are no other cars parked outside and for a long minute Robert just sits at the wheel and reviews his exit plan.

 _You're set to break her heart one day_ , Aaron had said, and it hurt in a way only truth can. Robert's timeline is kind of blurry right now —six months to a year, he tells himself, but when he wakes up with Chrissie by his side he allows himself to fantasize. He wants to make this last. Still, though it may be a bit of a tight squeeze if he gets out right now, and he will definitely burn this identity to the ground, it can be done. He fucked up, sure, but he's not backed himself into a corner just yet. 

And what's more, he's not even fucked up that much. Alright, he showed his hand a bit, but he's also been making mostly good guesses so far. He had seen something between Ben and the waiter and they turned out to be partners, had spotted the tension between Aaron and Ross only for Ross to all but confirm that they were sleeping together. Robert would usually be elated to be proven right, but that is not the case today. Instead he feels off balance, vaguely nauseous, on the edge of a migraine. It's been this way for days.

His mind offers a possible explanation but he quickly rejects it, refuses to look at it. It must be that the wedding is so close, and he's getting pre-heist jitters. He felt the exact same way the week coming up to his first bank robbery. In seven days, Chrissie will say I do and they will drive off into the sunset in a vintage car. And by the time they come back from their Philippines honeymoon, their finances will be effectively joined. Keys to the kingdom, right there. Not to mention the access he'll get once he manipulates Lawrence into making him COO of Home Farm Holdings.

Robert punches the steering wheel. There's no way he's pulling the plug right now. No way. He can't believe he even considered it. Fury rises up his throat, the voice of the radio DJ interrupts the song playing and Robert punches the wheel again and causes the horn to go off. He hits it a few more times and screams for good measure, finally feeling the anger subside. If he lets out a petulant huff when he flicks the radio off, nobody's around to see his little temper tantrum anyway. He steps out of the car, slams the door shut, kicks at the gravel. He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts stomping towards the house, ruminating his annoyance as he walks. He takes the long way 'round just because he can, not because he still needs a moment to calm down. 

If he reviewed the exit plan, that's because he likes to be well-prepared. He wasn't actually considering it, of course. Not seriously, anyway. The Whites are his mark, and he's already made sure that Aaron and his little crew understand that. He has nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. 

And then he sees Aaron's _boyfriend_ climbing out of the kitchen window.

Robert's last shred of self-preservation freezes him in place. A toolbelt hangs around Ross' hips, heavy hammer within reach of his hand, and the work boots on his feet wouldn't need to be steel-toed to kick Robert's face in. For a second, he both hopes and fears that Ross will see him and Robert will have to decide whether to fight or flee. But the man closes the window behind him, turns and —to Robert's relief and disappointment— starts taking his gloves off as he heads the other way. Robert glares daggers into the back of his head as he walks away.

The moment Ross takes a turn around the house and disappears from sight Robert scrambles for his keys, for the door, for composure. It only takes him a moment to get inside, but dozens of scenarios cross his mind. And yet he sees nothing out of place once he's in the house. The safe in Lawrence's office is closed, Chrissie's jewelry is strewn over her vanity where she left it, nothing has been vandalized. The feeling of relief doesn't last long. He's standing in the living room when the notion that he's being watched comes to him, and Robert seethes with hatred at the sight of the Whites' opulent, expensive, stupid decoration. He lifts a small stone statuette, shakes the candlestick, turns a vase upside down. A small microphone drops into his hand and he immediately knows it's a distraction. He resists the urge to smash the vase, stomps the mic with the heel of his shoe instead.

He holds it together because he knows, he's sure that he's got an audience. Reins in the urge to tear the place apart and instead he canvases it methodically, finds two more pretty obvious decoys before he spots the microphone taped behind a painting on the wall, the one hidden by a dusty wine bottle on the very highest shelf in the kitchen. But _he_ would have hidden at least one camera somewhere, and struggles to believe these guys wouldn't too. He considers it, tries to imagine Ross' movements around the house. Robert left less than three hours ago, so it's not like he had all the time in the world. Did he only come to bug the place? Was he lurking around all morning waiting for them to leave? Say he hadn't been around that long, where would he go first? Where would Robert go first?

Standing in the middle of Lawrence's office, he thinks he's getting rid of this wallpaper the second he's put his signature on the marriage certificate. He's already searched every room at least once, the office included, but the burning on the back of his neck that tells him he's being watched hasn't stopped. With a frustrated huff, Robert drops his weight onto Lawrence's desk chair and throws his head back. And then the round lamp on the ceiling catches his attention.

After climbing on top of the desk he can see the camera up close, and can't even resent those three arseholes for the work they put him through. It's good tech, lens the size of a bolt head, a delicate wire going inside the glass lamp. He has to unscrew it loose to find the transmitter inside, and he snaps the wire in the process. Robert struggles to imagine aggressive, boastful Ross doing such fine work. 

He screws the glass lamp back into place, pockets camera and transmitter, and almost falls off the desk when he's startled by his phone going off. He curses at the sight of Lawrence's name on his screen, takes a deep breath, and accepts the call. The old man rudely starts off without a greeting, and Robert digs the heel of his shoe into the wood of the desk he's still standing on, makes a face at the empty office and lets his head roll backwards and his eyes go white. 

Apparently Lawrence's suit for the wedding is being delivered right now, but his meeting has run longer than he expected, and he's still on his way back from town. Robert's reply is all sweetness and condescension, of course he would be happy to assist his _family_ in any way he can. He thinks he sees something on the ceiling —maybe a light filtering through the wooden boards?— but then an idea crosses his mind and distracts him. 

He interrupts whatever the old man is saying, starts talking even before the plan has fully formed in his mind.

* * *

It didn't take Robert much effort to plant the idea of an impromptu visit to Holey Scrap in Lawrence's mind. He can sow doubt and distrust in people's minds like no other, and it wasn't hard to poke some holes into the bullshit profit projections that _Danny and Ben_ had sent them anyway. Lawrence is now at the wheel, fully convinced that he's the one running this show. 

Only when they cross the scrapyard sign and Robert makes Ross' stupidly broad shoulders, he starts to consider the possible consequences of his actions. He didn't actually stop to think what he was expecting to get out of this, but he wasn't _really_ aiming for mutual destruction. It's too late though, Lawrence is already opening the door and stepping out and Robert can only scramble after him and try not to break character. He's barely just managed to school his face into a blank expression when Ross turns around and sees them. Lawrence's jovial greeting is swiftly interrupted as he sees the tall, scarred man wearing a safety vest and gloves, and he confusedly asks, "Weren't you a waiter at my party the other night?"

Ross kicks away the old fridge that he was just taking apart, and approaches them with his arms open in a way that Lawrence may take as welcoming but Robert knows to be a threat. Robert can see the moment that Ross smooths out his scowl, and his face settles in an affable grin. "Yeah," Ross responds. There's a crowbar in his left hand, and Robert allows Lawrence to walk ahead. "Met the lads there and they said they could use an extra pair of hands," Ross explains easily, pointing at the portacabin with the crowbar, and Lawrence immediately brightens up when he sees that Adam is approaching them with a warm, if slightly confused smile. "More of a grafter than a waiter, me."

Whatever doubt Robert had managed to cultivate in Lawrence's mind, Adam's presence quickly dissolves it. He shakes Ross' hand amiably and gives Robert a satisfied smile. "They're charitable too," he notes, clearly delighted at his own choice in business partners. Robert rolls his eyes at the very concept of charity, and he hates to see Ross do the exact same thing. But Lawrence doesn't notice, looking at Adam —well, Danny— as he reaches their side. "Very impressive!" Lawrence adds for his benefit, and the lad beams. 

Robert sees Adam grab Ross' elbow for the shortest second as he tells the bloke that he can take his break now if he wants to, and Ross looks back over his shoulder, at the portacabin. Robert follows the direction of his gaze, half hoping to see Aaron, but there's nobody else in sight. When he looks back at Ross, he finds a threat in the man's dark eyes. Adam is sweet-talking Lawrence already, telling him he'll be happy to go over those projections again with him, steering him towards the portacabin with a hand on his arm, so Lawrence doesn't even notice the tension between Robert and Ross. As the two begin to walk away from them, Robert wearily eyes the crowbar still in Ross' hand. 

Only now does he start to wonder why this con-man was taking a fridge apart for no reason when they arrived. Maybe they have a camera at the entrance? The place looks shabby, but at this point Robert wouldn't put it past them. Ross seems to guess his thoughts, he laughs mirthlessly and asks, "You actually thought you could catch us red-handed? We're cleverer than that, mate."

Robert bristles at the familiarity, bites out, "I'm not your mate." 

"Woah, calm down there;" the bloke says, and raises his hands up in a pacifying gesture like he's not holding a potentially deadly weapon in his left, "we're not trying to have an argument." 

Robert looks away briefly, sees Lawrence has disappeared inside the now closed portacabin. He still keeps his voice low. "You were plenty happy to have one yesterday." 

"Had a bad day," Ross replies, shrugging, and juts his chin out towards Robert. "What's your excuse?" 

Robert scoffs, refuses to dignify that with a reply. "Pillock," he spits out, scowling at Ross. The man doesn't seem much affected, taps the crowbar against his own thigh casually —it takes Robert all of his strength not to step back. 

"Could say the same about you."

"You could. You'd be wrong," he fires back, because he would never admit to anyone else that he's anything less than a criminal mastermind, regardless of how badly he's recently fucked up. "What were you doing at Home Farm this morning?" he asks instead, and Ross shrugs. 

"Recon, what else?" 

He clearly knows Robert's found their little bugs already, and doesn't react when Robert pulls out a handful of broken plastic from his inner jacket pocket and drops it at his feet. If Robert was playing a different character he would spit on it for effect. "Anyone could've seen you. You're lucky it was me, but I did say I wanted you to keep away from me." Robert takes a step forward, jabs at Ross' chest with his index finger. He can see the man's anger simmering under the surface, but even with Lawrence out of earshot they both know that they can't afford to blow their covers right now. "I don't appreciate being messed with." 

"I were doing me job. Sorry if I got in your way," Ross replies, though he doesn't sound sorry in the least, and kicks the broken transmitter away with his boot, "but we knew the house was empty."

Robert clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Yeah, apart from me?" 

"D'you think I should be scared of ya or sommat?" Ross snorts. "A skinny blonde in a suit?" The smile that twists Ross' mouth is crooked and his eyes are cold. A lesser man would tremble under the weight of his stare. There's a warning in the bloke's voice. "You've got no idea who you're dealing with." 

If he's started to consider such a possibility, somewhere deep down, Robert won't let Ross see it. He rolls his eyes. "Please, enlighten me."

"We're not amateurs."

"Could've fooled me."

Ross actually laughs at that, a loud bark of a laugh that makes him throw his head back and relaxes his entire frame. He looks back at Robert, still grinning when he finally says, "Aaron's a Dingle," voice singing with an amusement that even Robert would find hard to fake. It lands like a punch to the gut. "We are not." Ross takes half a step forward, shoves his stupid grinning face right into Robert's. "Fucking." But before Robert can react he steps back, tilts his head sideways. "Amateurs."

Ross is turning back and walking away before Robert can even react, and he finds himself following the man, calling out, "Are you serious?" and hating that he can hear the wavering in his own voice.

"Dead serious, mate," Ross replies without looking back, throws the crowbar into a pile of tools next to a tower of old car tires. "I know exactly what you're doing showing up here," he tells Robert as he takes off the safety vest, and turns to face him again while he crumples the bright yellow fabric in his hands. Robert hoped to feel better once the other man was unarmed, but he feels —and the amusement in Ross' face tells him that he looks— like he's about to be sick. Ross chuckles. "You can't fuck with us. You're one single sorry excuse for a con artist, but we've got a whole family behind us."

Robert breathes in through his nose, tries to keep his shit together. There's no saving face here, that much is clear. But he is not used to feeling humbled, and for a moment he scrambles for a response under Ross' mocking gaze. "Okay, I hear you," he finally concedes. Ross punches him on the arm with a little too much force behind it for it to be entirely friendly, giving him a toothy smile.

"Good. And I don't get caught, me. Squeaky clean record. Nowt you can do to get us sent down." Robert can't help but scoff at that, but Ross isn't done yet. He pats Robert's shoulder, moves to walk past him. "And keep in mind you don't wanna meet Cain, yeah?"

Again Ross forces Robert to follow after him, and Robert hates every second of it. "Yeah, I've heard of him," he deadpans, hoping to put an end to the brag.

"I'm sure you have," Ross responds over his shoulder as he opens the door to a nondescript grey car. "But," he says, throwing the safety vest inside before he turns back around to look at Robert, "a word of advice."

"What?" 

Ross is unfazed by Robert's cold, sharp tone. He tosses the car keys up in the air, and then catches them. "Now you know we're not a crew to be messed with," he starts softly, so that Robert _has_ to step closer to hear him, "you might want to check your attic." Ross grins like a wolf. "We're not the only ones you should be worried about, mate."

Then he pats Robert's cheek, and Robert is too busy asking, "My attic?" like an imbecile to punch his face in. 

"See you around, Wentworth," Ross says, and winks at him before he steps into the car. "I've got a date. I'll tell Aaron you say hi, yeah?"

"Wait, what—"

But the door slams shut, the engine growls, and before Robert can even make sense of what's just happened, Ross has driven off. Somewhere behind him, he hears Lawrence call out his name.


	5. when you turn to leave i will stay put

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since before he can remember Robert has lived by a very simple philosophy. He wants, he takes. And he tends to want the things that are just out of his reach, the flowers that he has to sneak a hand through the fence to grab, the locks that he has to pick. If he was being honest with himself, Robert would have to admit that he just wants to see Aaron again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when we started writing this fic i had only been in soap hell for a little over a month, and i fully told eris _there's no way anybody's gonna read the insane shit we are about to post_. 40 thousand words later (we just finished writing chapter 10, and are only 3 chapters away from the end), 100 strangers have apparently read at least one (1) whole chapter of this fic and clicked on the little heart button at the bottom, and that's absolutely bonkers to me. anyway, this is corny, but thanks y'all. it means a lot. —drea

_i think i started a war  
_ _all that i wanted was more_

— [ _Long Way Down_ , Skye Wallace ](https://open.spotify.com/track/0RLqZVOYJceOKpQ2iZFbX9?si=jg7pQTVBRhymCvVT4iLpDQ)

###  **6 days to the wedding**

When Robert was nineteen and going by Jake in the streets of Leeds, his mate Rick taught him how to hotwire a car. He taught him other things —how to make a cop in street clothes, the signs of a violent john, how to trick a magnetic sensor alarm— but Robert will always remember him as the skinny kid who within ten minutes of knowing each other asked him if he wanted to steal a car. They never met Cain, of course. They were bottom of the food chain, a jungle of middlemen between the real criminals and them. But Robert knew that not a single stolen car made its way in or out of Leeds without Cain Dingle taking a cut.

So yeah, he's scared of the Dingles. He was scared before, when they were just a name, the faceless rulers of the territory where Robert used to operate. In the decade since he left Leeds, Robert has heard all kinds of stories about the things that happen to those who cross Cain. So it speaks to the gravity of the situation that the Dingles are not currently Robert's greatest concern. 

Home Farm has an attic. An entire attic that Robert didn't know about —that Chrissie and Lawrence obviously don't know about either, though that doesn't console him— and if he felt humbled yesterday he feels fucking stupid now. Careless, sloppy, _lazy =_. He remembers thinking, not a week ago, that he had Lachlan under control. Nothing to worry about in a teenager —even an off-putting little creep like Lachlan White. And fuck, Robert hates being wrong. 

It wasn't hard to find the attic once he knew to look for it. Robert wants to think he eventually would have found it anyway, but the truth is he's not so sure. He's been at Home Farm for months now, and he never felt like he had any reason to do a deep canvas of the house until yesterday. He figured out where the Whites hid their valuables within two weeks of dating Chrissie, easily recognized their security system, got his hands on the safe's make an model effortlessly, and identified the best ways out of the estate and out of the village within forty-eight hours of moving in. And of course he looked into the family when he chose them as his next mark, but the faceless rebel sister seemed unlikely to turn up and what he found on Lachlan didn't give him pause —Robert knew about the allegations, the dismissal, the counseling, the escape slash suicide attempt. He actually thought that having a troubled kid as a distraction may make the family easier to manipulate. 

Now he looks at his reflection in the mirror and finds himself pale, tense, out of character. Wentworth Taylor is a grinning, cocky, charming rich boy; but Robert can't muster up a smile for the life of him. He fixes the collar of his shirt.

Couple months back he caught Lachlan with some local girl's stolen jacket and a bunch of pictures of her in his phone, snatched the jacket away, told the little creep that he would keep his dirty secret from Chrissie as long as he stopped harassing the locals —and he put in a good word for Wentworth with his mum, of course. After that, Robert had thought that he had Lachlan under his thumb. Since he found the kid's terrifying little hideaway in the house's attic last night, Robert's come to realize he's been played. 

In the attic there were blankets, pillows, empty cracker boxes, some of Lachlan's clothes, a tablet that Lawrence lost some months ago. Robert has a theory about that —he wasn't around when Lachlan supposedly ran away from home with the intention of committing suicide, but he knows that the kid was missing for about a week. In any case, if he faked the whole thing for attention while actually hiding up here, Robert really has no way to prove it. He does have a cause for immediate fucking concern, in the holes in the floorboards that allow one to spy into any room in the house. Finding the one that looks directly down on his and Chrissie's bed made bile rise up Robert's throat.

Yet as disturbing as that was, what's really got him worried is the fact that Lachlan seems to have been trying to dig up dirt on him for a while now, maybe even before Robert found those pictures and threatened him with telling his mum. It's apparent Lachlan's been doing his homework, too. He's got photocopies of Wentworth's documents, scraps of paper with Robert's handwriting, a bunch of receipts that Robert remembers throwing away. He wonders if Lachlan has been following him. But he would have known, wouldn't he? And in any case, Robert will be paying attention now that he does know. 

He's once again one step ahead, as he should have always been. Robert pours gel on his fingertips, runs his hand through his hair. He manages a smile but it doesn't reach his eyes. He has to go out there, play his role, and he can't afford to miss a single cue. 

Robert has just stepped out of the kitchen with a single black coffee in hand —can't even think of solid food right now— when the solicitor shows up. She's a stunning blonde woman in her late thirties or early forties who Robert is sure he's never seen before, and she introduces herself to Lawrence and Robert with aplomb. Explains that Lawrence's usual solicitor is traveling at the moment, asks if he didn't get the email, dismisses Lawrence's apologies with a polite laugh when the old man explains that he's currently between assistants. After the introductions, Robert makes his excuses and lets Lawrence know he'll be around if they need anything. He's not made it out of the hall when _they_ arrive. 

They are five minutes early, which Robert is sure Lawrence will like. He is glad that Aaron and Adam have no reason to bring Ross with them, and Lawrence seems to have forgotten all about Danny and Ben's supposed employee. Lawrence introduces the two lads to his solicitor, who expresses her disapproval that they aren't accompanied by a legal advisor themselves, and heads into Lawrence's office with the authority of somebody who owns the place. 

Adam doesn't even spare Robert a glance when he walks with Lawrence into the office, earnestly explaining as they go that Ben's cousin in Liverpool checks all their legal paperwork via email free of charge. Aaron lingers a few steps behind, catches Robert standing in the doorway to the living room with his coffee cupped between both hands, and there's no dignified manner in which Robert can avoid meeting his eye. He expects to find mockery there, to see Aaron gloating in their easy win, but Aaron's eyes are searching, intense. He's asking a question but Robert still can't get a read on him. He can't look away either, can only guess what answer —if any— Aaron finds in Robert's face before he gives him a curt nod and disappears into Lawrence's office. The silent exchange does nothing to ease Robert's anxiety and, when he takes the coffee to his mouth, he finds that he can't stomach the smell of it. He leaves it to grow cold on a sofa armrest while he paces around.

Chrissie left for town after breakfast, Lachlan stayed over with a friend last night, and the office door is now closed. Robert lingers in the empty living room like it's some kind of limbo, hating every second Aaron and Adam spend alone with _his_ mark. Except Lawrence is now Aaron's mark, and there's nothing Robert can do about it —Ross has made sure he understands that. The best possible outcome for him is that the deal goes down smoothly, and Aaron walks out of here with Lawrence's money and no reason to put a price on Robert's head. Once him and his crew are out of the picture, Robert can start planning his next steps. After all, there's no way that Lawrence will even realize he's been conned before the wedding, and Robert knows that his alias can withstand the police investigation that will doubtlessly ensue. 

He'll figure out what to do about Lachlan soon enough. Robert is _not_ scared of him. Off-put, sure. A little freaked out, maybe. If he keeps startling every time a floorboard creaks, if he keeps searching the ceilings for the near-invisible peepholes, if he has the urge to check the attic just to make sure Lachlan isn't secretly watching him, well. Robert will handle the kid, and that's what really matters. He just needs Aaron gone first. Knowing that the bloke is under the same roof as him is making Robert feel slightly unhinged right now. Inside the house he can't shake off the idea that he's being watched, and he needs some air anyway, so Robert finally empties his coffee down the kitchen sink and goes for a walk outside. 

The field surrounding the house slopes downwards and Robert allows it to push him into a fast stride, a brisk enough pace that it quickens his breath and sends his heart beating fast from exertion, rather than anxiety. He sees the groundskeeper carrying a bucket in the distance, but the man is luckily going in the opposite direction and nobody else crosses Robert's path. 

He'll get this urge when he's alone sometimes. To dig a shovel into the dirt, bury bare hands into a dead animal's bowels, rip the weeds from the dark wet soil. Robert didn't particularly enjoy farm work, but he could do it. He _can_ do it. Sometimes when he finds himself alone at Home Farm, so comfortably settled into what is already the longest con of his career, he'll wonder what sets him apart from the Whites. He picks up the hatchet that's resting against a fence and it settles in his grasp easily, naturally. He doesn't actually need to swing it to know that he can, that his hands will always wrap around a tool instinctively, that there are years of manual work separating Robert from the character he plays around the Whites. 

The reassurance settles his stomach a bit, he stands more confidently now. He puts the axe down, heads back towards the house. 

* * *

He sees Chrissie's car parked on the gravel driveway, an old but well-cared-for truck next to it. Aaron and Adam came in the same nondescript grey car Ross was driving yesterday, still parked next to Robert's own, but the solicitor's flashy red car is nowhere in sight, so the deal must be closed and the meeting almost done. Robert looks at the high little window that he now recognizes as the attic's only source of light; half expecting to find Lachlan's eyes looking back at him. The window is empty, and he strides towards the house, the feeling that he's being watched settling deep into his bones again. 

He hears the door to Lawrence's office opening just as he's stepping into the hall, and Aaron's thick accent makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. But the only steps he hears are from Chrissie's heels, and he hurries so he can catch her before she gets to the office. The sight of her doesn't spark the satisfaction he's used to feeling when she's around, but he can fake it well enough, pull her in by the waist and kiss the smile off her lips. If the kiss is slower, deeper, a tad more heated than their usual greetings, that has nothing to do with the fact that they are standing in full view of Lawrence's open office door. 

"What was that for?" Chrissie whispers against the crook of his neck when they part, and pulls back to give him a bashful little smile. He pushes a strand of hair away from her face. 

"I can't kiss my fiancée in the middle of the day now?" he asks instead of replying, his voice low but not that low, surely not low enough that it would be impossible for somebody in the office to make out most of the words. His hands linger on her waist as she steps back, finally letting go when she nods towards their audience. 

"You'll embarrass the guests," she scolds him, loud and clear, and gives the men at the office door an apologetic little smile. Robert turns with her, both welcoming their guests together as a couple, an unified front. He meets Aaron's eyes, finds them sharp and cold under his furrowed brow. For a moment Robert fears that the deal's gone pear shaped, that he's about to find himself with a bullet lodged in his skull, but Adam's bright smile promptly reassures him that there's nothing wrong.

"Don't worry about it!" Adam tells Chrissie with a toothy grin, and throws an arm over Lawrence's shoulders. "We're done here anyway," Adam continues, and doesn't seem to notice Chrissie's amusement, or her father's dismay. Robert knows Chrissie well enough to guess that she's spotted Lawrence's little crush, and already imagines how she'll share her suspicions with him when they are alone tonight. 

"Excellent!" Chrissie exclaims, clapping her hands together and stepping forward to accept Aaron's brief, polite handshake before turning to rescue her father from Adam's grasp. "Champagne then?"

Robert's eyes follow Aaron's hand as it lets go of Chrissie's and drops to his side. "That's a great idea," Robert tells Chrissie as she greets _Danny_ next, but he's still looking at Aaron, at the way his hand clenches into a fist before he forces himself to relax. Robert's eyes wander up his arm, past the undone shirt collar, to the tense line of Aaron's mouth. His stomach lurches, his eyes skirt upwards and find Aaron looking right back at him.

Heavy boots make their way from the kitchen, and a grey-haired man in plaid comes out carrying a toolbox. Chrissie introduces him with a bright smile and a cheerful, "Oh! And this is Ronnie," that gives Robert a much-appreciated excuse to escape Aaron's gaze. "He's going to be fixing up the stables," she explains, looking first at Robert and then at her father. "You're welcome to join us for lunch," she tells Ronnie then, but the man immediately begins shaking his head no.

"Thank you, but I should get to work, actually." He looks uncomfortable, and Robert guesses he's feeling mighty out of place. Robert's always been happy to mooch off of rich people, but he can respect a man who just wants to do his job and get the hell out of there. "Point me towards the stables and I can get you a quote by this evening," Ronnie tells Chrissie, polite but firm enough that she won't feel obliged to insist. 

She turns to Robert with a sweet, "Wentworth, dear," and asks him to please unwrap the charcuterie board that's already prepared in the kitchen, promises she'll be right back and guides Ronnie towards the hall. Still trying to avoid Aaron's eyes, Robert looks at Lawrence, and finds that the old man's face is drawn like he's just tasted something intolerably sour, deep lines framing his mouth. Robert can only guess that he's suddenly become aware of just how obvious an effect Adam has on him and become embarrassed that his own daughter has just witnessed that. In a moment of uncharacteristic kindness, Robert decides to take pity on the old man. 

"Gentlemen," he says, and grabs hold of Adam and Aaron's attention, "this way."

* * *

Lunch goes by with a surprising absence of obstacles, mostly due to Chrissie's unparalleled skill for directing the conversation and Adam's effortless charisma. His anecdotes have the easy flow of a story that has been told many times over, and Robert guesses that he's adapting an older tale to the village's setting —he's clearly done his homework, because he sprinkles in geographical landmarks, regional businesses and even a well-known local politician's name. It's really a shame that the only person really paying him any attention is Chrissie.

Lawrence has been drinking at a truly impressive pace, eager to open an expensive red wine after the champagne was gone, and Robert is no longer so sure that his sudden mood swing has anything to do with Adam or his investment. Actually, he seems to have altogether forgotten about Danny and Ben, and about his surroundings entirely, looking out of the window with a profound sadness that Robert doesn't get, and he simply doesn't care to understand. Aaron takes up all of his attention, and whatever is accosting Lawrence is the last thing in Robert's mind.

He knows Lachlan isn't looking down at them from the ceiling —the kid got home half an hour ago and barely spared them a general greeting before he turned on the TV in his bedroom— and yet the sensation that he's being watched doesn't subside. So he gives in and turns his head to look at Aaron, who's sitting as far away from him as the kitchen table allows. Aaron is never actually looking at him; and yet every time Robert's gaze lands on him he seems to notice, meeting his eyes before Robert has a chance to look away. And every time Robert feels Aaron's gaze linger on him, but he doesn't dare look his way again for a while.

This time, when their eyes meet across the table Robert doesn't avert his gaze, doesn't try to play it off. In the brightly lit kitchen Aaron's eyes are clear but unreadable, any real emotion hidden behind the slightly bored but polite smile that he's been wearing all lunch. Robert is sure he's not doing half as good a job of faking the smile on his own face, but luckily Lawrence is distracted and Chrissie is sitting by Robert's side, her body angled away from him so she can comfortably chat with Adam. Maybe Adam catches Aaron and Robert silently trying to outstare each other across the table —Robert doesn't notice and wouldn't care anyway. Adam asks him something about his car, and he's only half aware of his own reply, stubbornly holding Aaron's gaze.

Past Chrissie and Adam, past the half empty charcuterie board and almost-entirely empty wine bottle, past Lawrence's slumped frame; Aaron closes his eyes as he takes a sip of his champagne, lowers the glass and his eyes drift towards Adam. Free from his gaze, Robert can breathe easy again. It felt like an eternity, but they had only been staring at each other for a fraction of a minute when Aaron looked away —and somehow, Robert still feels like he lost.

They go a few more rounds at the same stupid little game, looking and pretending not to look. Next time their gazes meet for just a fleeting moment and Robert is sure he sees amusement bright in Aaron's eyes, but it could just as well be the dumb little joke Adam is telling —when he looks at Aaron and finds him looking at Adam instead, Robert's stomach churns in a way he can't make sense of. 

Adam turns to ask something to Lawrence specifically, and the old man's slurred response has Chrissie's brow furrowing in concern. When she looks at Robert he meets her with a comforting hand on her shoulder and an understanding nod, the easy wordless communication they have _because_ Robert can read Chrissie so well. They stand from their chairs in near unison, and Adam and Aaron follow their lead, putting down their glasses and moving to stand even before Chrissie starts to speak. 

They allow her to lead them out of the kitchen, pretending not to notice when Lawrence makes no movement to accompany them, and Robert can tell that she appreciates their consideration. Her, "It's been a real pleasure," and, "We must do this again!" sound much more genuine than her usual platitudes —if Robert didn't know better, he would probably say the same of Adam's cheerful blabbering.

Chrissie insists on showing them their horses, and Aaron walks ahead while Adam stays by their side telling them about how both he and _Ben_ grew up around farms. Aaron rests his elbows on the wooden fence, and Robert can only wonder if the man can feel him staring holes into his back. Robert is still waiting for some kind of sign from Aaron —a nod that tells him the Dingles won't come back to kill him in his sleep, _one_ genuine smile. Aaron, indifferent to his plight, runs his fingers through Troubadour's mane and it makes something lurch inside Robert's chest.

The old handyman —it takes Robert a good second to remember his name is Ronnie— comes out from behind the barn, measuring tape still in hand, and announces that he's about done, just needs to get to his truck so he can give Chrissie the budget in writing. Adam swiftly takes the exit, promising that they will of course have dinner soon to celebrate their first returns, and he has to go and grab Aaron's arm to get his attention away from the horse. When Aaron finally turns back to them there are crinkles at the corners of his eyes, Robert feels slightly out of breath. 

He keeps his hand on the small of Chrissie's back as they head back to the driveway, Aaron and Adam are just a few steps behind them and Robert has to fight the impulse to look over his shoulder to try and catch Aaron's eye. Instead he pretends to listen to what Chrissie is telling Ronnie about the stables' roof and whatnot, nods where it seems appropriate to nod, asks a question here and there, and resents it every time he turns his head to look at Chrissie and yet doesn't manage to see Aaron out of the corner of his eye.

And then they are standing by the cars and Ronnie is scribbling something over the hood of his truck and Adam is telling Chrissie, "Been a real pleasure," with an impossibly charming smile. It's all going too fast —Adam turns to Robert afterwards, and Robert can't miss the mockery in his bright brown eyes as they shake hands. It takes Robert all of his willpower not to lose his own smile, and yet his face falls anyway the second he finally turns to look at Aaron for what's likely to be the last time. Robert realizes it as it's happening that he's been expecting and dreading this moment since he first spoke to Aaron four days ago. 

Since before he can remember Robert has lived by a very simple philosophy. He wants, he takes. And he tends to want the things that are just out of his reach, the flowers that he has to sneak a hand through the fence to grab, the locks that he has to pick. Robert wanted to learn more about _Ben_ the second he made him at the Whites' dinner party and, now that he's gotten one look behind the curtain, he really doesn't want to leave that mystery unsolved. If he was being honest with himself, Robert would have to admit that he just wants to see Aaron again. 

He thinks maybe Aaron can tell, can see greed scribbled all over his face, because his lips twitch with a hint of a smirk and amusement glints in his bright blue eyes. Aaron shakes his hand firmly as he says, "See you 'round," his voice level, the barely-there smile only for Robert's eyes. And then he lets go, turns to Chrissie and offers a polite and amiable goodbye, waves at Ronnie before he steps into the car. Adam has the engine on before the door's even closed, the rumble of tires on gravel drowned out by the blood rushing in Robert's ears. He realizes his right hand still hovers slightly in front of his body, palm angled outwards. He drops it to his side abruptly, fingers clenching into a fist, and the back of his neck burns with embarrassment. 

Somewhere behind him Chrissie is speaking to Ronnie but Robert can't understand the words. The grey car disappears down the road as he slowly breathes in and then out, forces himself to relax. Aaron's touch still lingers on his palm when he opens his fist, so he shoves both hands into his pockets instead.

* * *

Chrissie very much wanted to cancel her afternoon plans to look after her father, but Robert convinced her that she should do no such thing. It would be his pleasure to care for his _family_ , and she was strictly forbidden from concerning herself with anything other than herself and her wedding, and of course he would text —call, even!— if anything happened, but nothing would. They exchanged _I love you_ s, and brief kisses that had nothing of the heat from earlier, but could be excused by their worry for Lawrence's state. 

Now Robert is standing on the near-empty driveway, left hand on the hood of his car, right curled in a fist and pressed against his mouth. Chrissie has been gone for a few minutes already, but Robert's façade completely crumbled the second she was out of his sight and he has yet to begin gathering his wits. 

He really should go check on Lawrence, lest the old man die of alcohol poisoning and they have to postpone the wedding to celebrate his funeral. Robert isn't good around grief, and he definitely doesn't need to add another problem on top of the little freak who's about to become his —well, Wentworth's— step-son. The thought alone sends a shiver down his spine. Robert can't wait to ship the kid to some posh school abroad. 

That's what matters, what he has to focus on. The wedding is in less than a week, the Whites' money is almost within his grasp. He can't be distracted by silly things, twenty thousand pounds and a wannabe stalker are less than bumps on the road. He exhales slowly and tries to relax his posture, loosens his fist and runs his fingers through his hair. He has an irrational urge to scream, to somehow release the frustration that has been simmering under his skin for days. But Lachlan could very well be looking out of a window right now, so Robert is gonna have to bite his tongue just a little longer. At least —he thinks as he finally sets towards the house— Lawrence will surely be too out of it to notice if Robert's mood is a little off. 

Robert steps into an empty hall and hears instrumentals coming from upstairs —the door to Lachlan's room must be open. Robert catches the front door before the wind can slam it shut, and gently guides it to close with a smooth click of the lock. Without really thinking about it, he sidesteps the floorboard that creaks and heads towards the kitchen.

The sound of Lachlan's voice stops him in his tracks just two steps from the living room door, a mumble at first, a shuffle of feet on the floor and then clearer, "Look at you. So pathetic." But Lachlan came home alone, didn't he? Robert takes one step forward, careful, straining to hear. "...to think I looked up at you for so long," Lachlan is saying as Robert finally gets close enough to the half-open door. From this angle he can see Lachlan pacing near the coffee table, something in his hand. Lachlan pauses, Robert carefully inches closer to the door, and can finally put the words in context.

The now-empty wine bottle rests on the coffee table, drinking glass stained red next to it, old Lawrence White splayed on the couch. Lachlan scoffs, and when he next moves Robert can see the phone in his hand. "My granddad: great businessman, great father, grandfather. But you're none of that, are you? Drunk and passed out at one in the afternoon."

Lachlan steps around the coffee table and sits down on it, holds his phone up. The notion that he might be recording this causes bile to swell up Robert's throat. There's a flair to Lachlan's words when he next speaks. "It's embarrassing, you know. I should be the one doing this." Robert sees Lachlan waving his hand in the air. "The troubled teenager. What would you and mum think of that? Me getting into alcohol now, after the legal highs, and the legal troubles." Lachlan chuckles at his own little pun, and Robert rolls his eyes in the empty hallway.

"I so badly don't want to disappoint mum, but you make it look so easy to look so sad," Lachlan says, affecting a sort of childish little whine, "She just feels sorry for you, I bet." He scoffs. "You think she'd feel sorry for me if I got drunk and started playing with a shotgun. I know that's one of your favourite pastimes, so what if I joined in and took it up with you. The difference is that I would shoot you. And I'd know exactly what I'm doing." Robert feels his lower jaw drop. He shakes himself out of his shock soon enough, but Lachlan isn't done yet. "I think about that a lot. Killing someone. Not just you, of course. Someone in general, but you do take centre stage quite a lot. Wentworth as well." Robert slaps a hand over his mouth to prevent any sound from escaping him. "Mum sometimes too. What would it be like? Watching your life drain away…" Lachlan is silent for a long, long moment. "Maybe it wouldn't be as exciting as I imagine, because you look half-dead now anyway."

Robert can see Lachlan moving around but from this angle he can't tell what exactly is happening inside the room. Lachlan's voice carries on. "But I'm the one who's always messing up. And thanks for sweeping all that under the rug by the way." Lachlan chuckles. "As if I did anything wrong." He huffs, takes a noisy breath in. "I just _liked_ Fiona and that bitch…" 

Robert hears Lachlan's voice trail off. Orchestral music is still playing somewhere upstairs but the first floor is all silence, and Robert fights to keep his own breathing under control. Finally, Lachlan starts talking again. "You're worse than me. You are so much worse." He pauses, and Robert hears the screech of the coffee table against the floor and the shuffle of his shoes. "If I killed you, you'd deserve it. I hope you know that, granddad. You'd deserve it."

Robert breathes out slowly into the palm covering his mouth. Before he can lose the last of his composure and give himself away, he makes his escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing a lachlan villain monologue was a whole thing that i actually did because apparently i'm shakespeare now. —eris


	6. no map, no good advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time today, he pulls up his contact list, less than a dozen numbers saved with only their initials. First on the list, only one letter because he didn't have a last name for him four days ago, _A_. Robert locks the phone and pockets it again before he can do something stupid, like press call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i accidentally posted the chapter early and deleted it, no i didn't ❤️ —drea

_you can feel it in your bones at night and it's only just begun_

— [ _One Night in the Sun_ , LP ](https://open.spotify.com/track/29xUFQ0Zvh5U7vYtlgrTGw?si=h_4Q88K2RbyntNEHg21VEw)

###  **5 days to the wedding**

He hears the shower on the other side of the door and sighs in relief. He's still uncomfortably aware of the peephole in the ceiling above him —Robert has no reason to believe Lachlan is up there, of course, but if he was anxious yesterday, today he's downright paranoid— so he goes over to the dresser and pretends to rummage through a drawer while he pulls out his burner phone.

Of course it's always set to silent, and he usually checks it so sparsely that the battery tends to last around a week, but he's unlocked it so many times in the past twenty-something hours that it's gone down from a reasonable sixty-seven percent to below twenty-five. And yet there are no missed calls, no unread texts. Not for the first time today, he pulls up his contact list, less than a dozen numbers saved with only their initials. First on the list, only one letter because he didn't have a last name for him four days ago, _A_. Robert locks the phone and pockets it again before he can do something stupid, like press call.

Opening the bathroom door to a wall of fog, he lets Chrissie know he'll be back later and gets an intelligible sound of acknowledgement. Lawrence has been locked working —a blatant euphemism for nursing his hangover— in the office all morning and, to Robert's unease, Lachlan is nowhere in sight. He thinks about the kid so casually saying he'd thought about killing Robert's alter ego, and actually shudders a little. Next time the Whites give him a few hours alone he should go around and take the bullets out of every hunting rifle in the house. The thought that it would be terribly easy to tamper with his brakes crosses his mind when he's turning the key in the ignition, but he forces himself to dismiss it. He's not that paranoid yet. 

Surely some time at the wheel by himself will calm him down, maybe he can even drive up to one of the nearby towns and have a drink, break character for a little while. Pulling a long con alone can be a draining ordeal, and more experienced grifters than him would need a moment backstage alone after the week Robert's had. Once he's able to put a couple villages between himself and the Whites, he's sure he'll be able to look at the situation calmly and figure out what to do about the teen psychopath. He starts to feel better the second he crosses the gates to Home Farm and heads down the road. 

After a bit of shuffling around stations the radio lands on a long range frequency from Hotten playing 90s pop, and he sets it at a low volume. Robert thinks that he has to plan for when Lawrence realizes he's been conned, too, but as long as he doesn't slip up there's no reason for anybody to connect him to the scam —after all, the Whites believe Wentworth Taylor is just as disgustingly wealthy as they are. He will, of course, note just how eager he himself had been to invest, maybe even be the one to tell Lawrence that he was trying to contact Danny about that investment and couldn't reach him. Of course Lawrence has to be the one to connect the dots himself, lest he feels too wounded in his pride and decides to shoot the messenger.

He's smirking to himself as he plans how he'll use this to make Chrissie doubt her father's capacity to manage the estate, and so gain a little more leverage at Home Farm Holdings, when he realizes that he's missed his turn. The next exit will have him driving right past Holey Scrap —he scoffs at the name in his mind. But now he's curious to see what the scrapyard looks like without Aaron's set-up, how much of what he and Lawrence saw was a mirage. He's quickly approaching the next turn and, just when he's about to drive past it, decides it won't kill him to take a look. 

The sign is still there, the old cars and towers of tires are still there. Robert thinks about all the real businesses that he's briefly and not-so-briefly borrowed during his career, and he _almost_ feels sorry for the real scrappers who will surely be the target of Lawrence's wrath when he realizes he's been scammed. The entrance to the place is open and, before he can think better of it, Robert's hands are steering the wheel to the right. 

What throws him off is the sight of the grey car, same make and model as the one from yesterday. He comes to a stop, and from this angle he can see it's the same plates —Robert always looks at the plates. The door of the car is open, a bright yellow vest thrown over it, a mug on top of the car roof. Robert wonders if, now that Aaron and Adam have Lawrence's money firmly within their grasp, Ross will take the chance to bash his head in. He sees movement on the side mirror and is already grabbing for the gearshift, when he realizes that it's Aaron approaching him, and he opens the door instead. He leaves the keys on the ignition and the door open, reaches Aaron in two long strides. He feels this wave of surprise-panic-euphoria-relief wash over him and it comes out as frustration, as almost-anger, as a shove against the car and fists clutching into the collar of Aaron's hoodie, and bitten out words close to Aaron's face, "What the fuck are you still doing here?"

Aaron stumbles backwards and catches himself on elbows and forearms before his back hits the car, goes with the pull of Robert's hands on his collar, and holds his empty hands up like he's got nothing to hide. He's trying to school his face, Robert can see it, but the amusement is clear in his eyes. "I work here," he says coolly, and Robert wants to tell him he's a shite liar. 

"You have your investment," he barks out instead, and can't help but push Aaron against the car to test his resolve. Robert thinks he sees the lad's jaw tighten, but it's there and gone. "Shouldn't you be on a plane to Marbella or Crete right now?" 

Aaron chuckles, a half-shrug against Robert's grasp. "More an Ibiza man meself, but whatever works for you." 

Robert scowls, mutters, "I'm serious, Aaron," and when he steps forward, Aaron seems to realize he's got nowhere to step backwards to. "The papers are signed, the money's in your account," Robert says, and he wants to hold on to the anger but he thinks he sounds a little desperate. There's something like a plea seeping into his own voice —as if saying it could make it real— "We're done here."

Aaron rests some of his weight against the car, still sounds half-joking when he asks, "You want me gone so bad?" and Robert feels heat on his face, tightens his grip on Aaron's collar, tugs. 

"That's not what I said." 

He hates the amusement in Aaron's bright eyes, the smile that ghosts over his lips when he says, "Oh, you _want_ me to stay?" 

Robert gapes, finally manages, "That's not—" 

Aaron rolls his eyes at him, interrupts him. "We sent the real owners on a two week holiday," he says —Robert thinks that's not a small investment for a twenty thousand pounds mark— and Aaron shrugs again before he continues, "so we actually do work here."

For a moment, Robert doesn't even know what to say to that. "That's—" he starts, comes up empty for another second, loosens his grasp on the fabric of Aaron's hoodie and finally lets go. "...nice of you?"

Aaron, apparently unaware that he's just said something absolutely insane, continues. "Technically, our work here is not done. For…" He eyes his bare wrist, then gives Robert a blank look. "Oh, another six days. Let's just say you're well rid now and call it quits, eh?" 

Robert scoffs, reaches into his jacket, saying, "I can just tell Lawrence…" He trails off as he pulls out his burner phone —Robert has, of course, no intention of telling Lawrence anything— but Aaron grabs his wrist before he can even unlock it. His grip is tight and when Aaron gives him a crooked smile, Robert's heart skips a beat. 

"Might ask ya the same thing, actually," Aaron says, mocking, but there's an edge to it —like a dog baring teeth. 

"Wha—" Robert starts, but Aaron seems to have lost his patience, tightens his grip around Robert's wrist and it only takes him a second of twisting before it hurts too bad for Robert to keep his grasp on the phone. The burner clatters somewhere near their feet and Robert manages not to whimper in pain —just barely— but he can't help the surprised gasp when Aaron brusquely grabs at the lapels of his jacket. He pulls him in, forcing Robert to bend his neck and meet him at eye level, and they are so close now their foreheads would touch if either of them moved just an inch. 

There's a snarl twisting Aaron's mouth but he sounds frustrated rather than angry when he asks, "What the fuck are you still doing here?" —presses his lips into a tight line and raises his eyebrows like he's saying _come on_. 

"I—" Robert starts, but he's not sure what it is that he intends to say and Aaron's eyes are too heavy on him, he can barely stand to hold his gaze. He finds himself gaping like a fish again, lost for words in a way he isn't around anybody else. When it becomes apparent that Robert can't string two words together, Aaron rolls his eyes. 

"Why are you…" he starts slowly, words pitching up as if speaking to a very thick child, "...still holding me against this car?" Aaron is so close that Robert can feel his breath on his skin. It makes it difficult to think. "You wanna tell me what you're really here for?" Aaron asks, voice low, his eyes fleetingly wander down Robert's face and then look into his eyes again. When he tugs at Robert's jacket, the only thing Robert can do is glance down at Aaron's still lingering smile, grab Aaron's wrists in a half-assed attempt to stop him. "It's pretty obvious, Wentworth." 

Robert's hands wrap around Aaron's forearms but he doesn't really put any effort into stilling him, he lets Aaron pull him that last inch closer. Pressing against each other feels like a natural conclusion, Aaron's knee sliding between his legs and their hips slotting together and Robert is still grasping onto Aaron's wrists because he thinks otherwise he wouldn't be able to stand. He thinks _oh_ , so that was what the look at the dinner party meant. But the only word Robert can articulate is, "What?" 

Aaron scoffs. "You're gay." 

Robert doesn't actually need to think to respond to that, he speaks the words like it's muscle memory. "I'm not gay," —rather unconvincing so close to Aaron's mouth. 

"Oh, really?" Aaron's laughter is a puff of hot breath on Robert's cheek, they are so close that Robert feels more than sees Aaron's tongue wet his lips. "Prove it," Aaron says, but Robert is already moving —not pulling away but leaning forward, licking the words off his mouth. 

It's not so much a kiss as it is a clashing of teeth, noses pressing together, tongues pushing into mouths. It's clumsy and urgent and almost not good —it's exactly what Robert has wanted since Aaron first glanced at him over that glass of champagne. Robert's hands are still clutching at Aaron's wrists when he finally lets go of Robert's jacket and moves to grab his jaw, cups the right side of Robert's face and holds him there, slips his other hand under Robert's jacket and presses it over his racing heart. Aaron bites down on his lower lip and Robert gasps into his mouth, digs his fingers into Aaron's forearms, and finally melts into the slow drag of his teeth.

Robert's hands loosen their grip and slide to the crook of Aaron's elbows, they share an open-mouthed breath before Robert licks into Aaron's mouth and runs his fingers up Aaron's strong biceps, across the line of his shoulders. The thought that this isn't a good idea crosses his mind but here, with one palm finding its place easily on Aaron's waist and the other rubbing up his closely trimmed beard, he can't come up with one single good reason why. So he moves his hand to the back of Aarons' head and buries his fingers into the short hair there, and Aaron's hand under his jacket clutches at his shirt, drags down his ribs, slides to the small of Robert's back. 

They really can't be any closer but that doesn't stop them from trying, Robert presses Aaron against the car and Aaron leans back against it, both hands now grasping at Robert's back to pull him closer, to seek some leverage. Aaron shifts his hips with intention, Robert digs his teeth into his lip. 

At the very edge of his attention, Robert catches the sound of plastic snapping and it startles him away from the kiss. He sees his burner on the dirt next to their feet, now-shattered screen muddied from Aaron's boots. The whole list of reasons why he shouldn't be here, doing this —starting with the fact that he's _obviously_ straight— suddenly rushes to the forefront of his mind. He mutters, "Fuck!" —presses an open palm against his mouth, feels his face burning with the phantom sensation of Aaron's beard. Aaron's hands are still under his jacket, fingers splayed over Robert's waist, and he finds himself stumbling backwards, mumbling, "Aaron, Aaron, stop," as he pushes at Aaron's chest and turns to walk away. 

Aaron grabs at his elbow, keeping his voice low as he starts, "It's alright, we'll just—" but now that Robert is no longer rendered irrational by proximity he knows he can't stay. 

His voice _doesn't_ waver when he snaps at Aaron, "This was a mistake. I have to go."

"No, wait—"

Robert forcefully pulls his arms away, reaches the open driver's side door in two strides. "We're done here."

"We're here for Lachlan," Aaron calls out, and that gives Robert pause. He grabs onto the door, doesn't turn to Aaron, but doesn't get into the car either. After a moment of silence, Aaron finally goes on. "Lawrence is our mark too, obviously, but it's about Lachlan," he says, and Robert thinks he sounds genuine enough but he really can't tell without seeing his face. So he turns, and Aaron seems to take this as a signal to continue. "He was stalking a girl, taking pictures, stealing her things. Tried to assault her. She reported it, but it was cleaned away. By Lawrence." Aaron tilts his head as if saying _obviously_ and Robert nods. "Evidence disappeared, girl got threats. Family was evicted from their farm and nearly ruined," Aaron continues to explain. There are no theatrics, but Robert can see the way Aaron's shoulders begin to hunch and his hands clench into fists. "They have no proof, obviously, but it's known that Lawrence has favors to cash in with just about anyone in the area who owns land. That girl is traumatized and she deserves justice."

Robert has nothing intelligent to follow that up with, so instead he stares like an idiot for a long moment, mumbles, "You lot…" gestures vaguely with one hand and finally says, "You're not just con-men then."

Aaron snorts, concedes, "Not _just_ , no." He pauses, looks thoughtful, and his boots shuffle on the wet dirt. His eyes are blue and bright and honest when he earnestly explains, "A lot of good people are messed around —by rich folk, corporations. We help them, I guess. You could say we provide—" He seems to be looking for the right word, shrugs, finally says, "...leverage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. flip this coin to settle if i should go or stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert should run, he should get into his car and the fuck away from here. But Aaron reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, piercing eyes and soft words keeping Robert in place, says, "You can help us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _take you down i'll take a shot  
_ _i'll leave you for anything you got_

— [ _Smoking Gun_ , Pretty Polly ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2O54IUOtvcg5YW37lBcoEW?si=xjWYD3Z0Ti20z0wMk848qQ)

###  **still 5 days to the wedding**

In the silence that follows Aaron's confession, Robert scrambles to make sense of what he's just heard. He knows that he's looking at Aaron like the lad's just grown a second head, but that seems only fair. What Aaron's just told him is ridiculous, naïve, _insane_ ; and yet it almost makes sense —at least, it explains the fact that Robert isn't dead yet.

Aaron doesn't move closer, doesn't speak again either. He just stands there squinting in the white afternoon sun, waits him out. 

"Are you trying to get a conviction or…?" Robert finally asks, trails off when Aaron shakes his head no. For a moment they hold each other's gazes, the rest going unsaid.

After a long heart beat Aaron takes one step closer, then another, and Robert's fingers whiten around the edge of the car door. Aaron pitches his voice low, asks, "Ross told you about the attic, yeah?" 

Robert grimaces, nods. "Didn't even know we had an attic, but there it was." Aaron takes one last step, his boots knocking against Robert's shoes, and Robert finds himself caged between him and the car door, immediately forgetting anything else he was planning to say. 

Now that he knows that the _something_ in Aaron's eyes is want, the rest becomes much more easier to read. The twist at the corner of his mouth means he's toying with Robert just a little, the slight furrowing of his brow may be that he's still waiting to see what Robert will do next. And Robert should run, he should get into his car and the fuck away from here. But Aaron reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, piercing eyes and soft words keeping Robert in place, says "You can help us," opens his hand in the narrow space between them to show Robert the earpiece in his palm. Robert looks down at it, then up Aaron's chest, past his lopsided smile, finally into his eyes. 

Robert has the fleeting notion that he would do just about anything if it means he gets to kiss Aaron again, but luckily Aaron's mouth is on his before he can dwell on that thought. 

He is vaguely aware of Aaron's hand sliding under his jacket and dropping the earpiece into the inner chest pocket, but he's _very_ aware of the brush of lips against the corner of his mouth, tongue against his and then gone, teeth tugging at Robert's lower lip before Aaron pulls back. Robert follows him for a moment, leans into empty space and Aaron stops him with a hand on Robert's chest over the jacket, palm pressing the earpiece into his skin. He grins up at Robert, pats his chest before taking another step backwards. "Think about it."

Robert all but crumbles into his car and onto the driver's seat, slams the door shut. He can see Aaron in his rearview mirror, shoulders relaxed, arms folded over his chest. Robert has the urge to bring his hand to his mouth, he turns the key in the ignition instead. If his knuckles are white against the steering wheel only he can see it —it stops his hands from shaking, and that has to be enough. He steps a bit too hard on the gas, and gets the hell outta dodge.

All plans for the day forgotten, Robert drives aimlessly for a while, eventually finding himself back at Home Farm. For the longest time he just sits in his car, the only one in the driveway, fingers still clawing at the steering wheel, heart still racing, that exit plan looking more and more attractive with each shallow breath he takes. 

It's not even about what Lachlan and Lawrence being exposed will mean to Robert's con. He should be worried about that, he _is_ worried about that. He realizes that he should have asked about Aaron's timeline, that Chrissie can't possibly know the full extent of what Lachlan's done, that he needs to get out of here before the Whites' name is plastered all over the regional news. Weeks, months of work down the drain because of a bunch of wannabe vigilantes. Robert bites out, "Fuck!" and throws his head back against the seat. 

But the moment he closes his eyes the kiss starts playing in his mind again, and he finally lets go of the steering wheel just so he can punch it in frustration. Fucking hell, Robert thinks, he's been acting like a child. So what if he's into Aaron? He's not gay —he _knows_ that— and kissing this one bloke doesn't change that. It's a non-issue, and whether he is or isn't into this idiot with a Robin Hood complex doesn't really change the fact that when Aaron moves against the Whites, Robert's little stage play will come undone. And no matter how he looks at it, he can't come up with a single scenario in which he both stops Aaron from blowing up his con, and Cain Dingle doesn't take him out. 

He holds back the urge to hit the steering wheel again. Robert wants to believe he's above throwing two temper tantrums in his car within the same week, and that's the main reason why he finally takes the keys out of the ignition and steps out onto the gravel. Home Farm seems to loom over him in a way it never has before. 

The house is silent when he walks in. Office door open, rooms empty —Robert immediately knows what he needs to do. He heads for the kitchen, and the smell of coffee reminds him of Aaron's eyes on Robert's when he came to Home Farm yesterday morning, of the mug on Aaron's car roof at the scrapyard, and Robert can feel his heart trying to break through his rib cage. When the attic staircase creaks under his foot, Robert's stomach drops and, though it does nothing to slow the panicked pace of his heart, at least the memory of Aaron is gone. 

The well-hidden entrance is now painfully obvious to him, and he hates knowing that it was right under his nose during all these months. At least everything looks exactly as it did two days ago, and Robert can allow himself to think Lachlan doesn't actually come up here that often. He could only rummage through the attic for a few minutes last time —the sound of a car outside had him rushing back down to the kitchen soon enough— and now that he has the time to pay attention he half-wishes he didn't know about this at all.

The copies of his fake documents, the handwriting samples, a watch Robert thought he had lost; all of that he shoves into his jacket pocket. There are other things, though he has no reason to touch any of them. A fluffy hair tie, several mismatched earrings, a pink plastic keyring, other pieces of paper with different handwritings that Robert doesn't recognize. He pages through a bunch of loose photocopies looking for any mention of his name(s) —Robert recognizes the black toner stain near the edge that the printer in Lawrence's office leaves— but they have nothing to do with him. Robert's stomach turns when he recognizes what most of them are —restriction order notifications, certificates issued after filing criminal reports, the acknowledgement that Lachlan would be returned his belongings after being released from arrest— and he drops the whole paperstack, sheets scattering on the wooden floor. 

His hands are clammy when he scrambles to pick up the tablet that's lying on top of the crumpled clothes. Fingers shaking a little, he presses the home button. After a second, the screen prompts him to enter the password and Robert bites out a curse. Fuck it, he can just tak— 

"How the hell did you get up here?"

Robert nearly drops the tablet, clutches it to his chest instead. He has half a second to wipe the shock off his expression while he turns around, and he manages to meet Lachlan's glare with a shit-eating grin. "Nice hideout you've got here," he says, smiling with all of his teeth. He forces himself to relax his grasp on the tablet, and gestures around the attic with it, fakes a laugh. "What's with all the peepholes, you little sicko?" 

He regrets going for blatant mockery when Lachlan crosses the attic and snatches the tablet off his hand, but Robert manages not to flinch. Lachlan scowls at him, spits out, "Oh, _I'm_ sick?" and a short burst of laughter actually escapes Robert before he can bite it back. He presses his palm to his mouth, tries to get his face in check. 

Robert suspects he's gonna get his head bashed in with that damn tablet but still drops his hand, scoffs and says, "I'm not the one spying into my mum's bedroom, Lachlan."

He braces for a blow even before Lachlan moves, but the kid swings the tablet towards the pile of clothes instead. It throws Robert off, and when Lachlan pushes him with both hands he stumbles backwards, his shoulder blades and the back of his head crashing painfully against the wall. Lachlan makes up with youth and athleticism for what he lacks in height, and the broad forearm he presses against Robert's throat doesn't feel like an empty threat. Robert scrambles to grab at Lachlan's wrist, can't actually push him away but manages to offer enough resistance that he can still breathe. Lachlan sneers. 

"You're just catfishing your way into a rich family," he pushes through his teeth, so close that Robert can almost taste the coffee in his breath. He tries and fails to push the kid away, attempts to tell him to get off but all he manages is a choked-out croak. Lachlan's disgusted grimace is swiftly replaced by a self-satisfied smirk. "I know you're faking it, Wentworth. You're a gold digger, trying to marry an heiress."

Robert grimaces, rasps out, "At least I'm not a sex pest," and earns himself a shove and even more pressure on his throat. 

A nail on the wall digs into his left shoulder blade as Lachlan bites out, "I can fucking kill you," so close Robert can feel the drops of saliva landing on his face. 

It takes just about every bit of strength he has, but Robert manages to push Lachlan away. The kid stumbles backwards, Robert staggers to get away from the wall, gasps for breath. Even with one hand rubbing at his own sore neck, Robert tries to fake confidence, puts on a plastic little smile and shoots back, "Yeah, so can I." 

Lachlan, who regains his composure much faster than Robert does, laughs a mirthless, empty laugh that belies the simmering hatred in his eyes. He makes no motion to approach Robert again as Robert moves towards the entrance. Instead, Lachlan shoves his hands into his pant pockets and looks Robert up and down with disdain. "No, I'll kill you," he says, his voice now low and calm. "And I won't feel a thing. And I'll get away with it too." He sounds sure, and he might be right. Robert doesn't want to stay around and find out. "You keep that self-satisfied smirk on your face," Lachlan continues. He moves brusquely as if he were to step forward and Robert scrambles backwards, already covering his face. Lachlan laughs again, dropping his weight back onto his heels and relaxing his stance as he says, "But if you wanna live, you don't tell mum or granddad about the attic. Got it?"

The smile has slipped off of Robert's face. It takes him a second to stop bracing for a blow, but he makes a courageous attempt at regaining his composure and rasps out a meek, "Yeah."

When Lachlan does step forward he does it slowly, and Robert wants to backtrack but he still has enough pride left not to. The staircase is _so_ close, but he doesn't dare take his eyes off Lachlan, could cry in relief when the kid comes to a stop a couple steps away. Still, Lachlan's cold voice fills him with dread. "I'll still kill you one day. Stay here. Make yourself at home. Marry my mum. I'll always be there, just waiting. You can't beat me at my own game, yeah?"

Cold fear trickles down Robert's back, but at least his voice doesn't waver when he mutters yet another, "Yeah." 

Lachlan smirks, gives him a condescending little nod. "Great, now that that's cleared up…" he tilts his head, holds one hand up to give Robert pause. "Run away. But not too far. I need to keep an eye on you." And then Lachlan lowers his hand like a merciful and benevolent ruler, and if Robert wasn't genuinely afraid for his life he would laugh at him. But he is, he's fucking terrified, so he nearly trips down the stairs instead.

He braces himself on the kitchen table for a second and listens, but it doesn't sound like Lachlan's coming down the wooden stairs, so Robert takes a moment to catch his breath. He sees Lachlan's phone, an untouched coffee mug next to it. In the silent kitchen he can hear the soft creaks and groans of the ceiling as Lachlan moves above his head. Robert snatches the phone off the table, pats his jacket pocket to make sure he still has his keys on him, and dashes for the front door. 

This time he heads for the scrapyard with intent. He can't come up with anything else and, even if he could, what better option does he have? What other ally does he have? What was it that Ross had called him…? One single sorry excuse for a con artist, sleeping under the same roof as a would-be serial killer. So yeah, he gets in his stolen car, and he drives to Aaron's stolen scrapyard, because what else can he do? 

But the gate to the scrapyard is closed, and nobody comes out when he gets out of his car and calls Aaron's name. So he jumps over the gate, but the portacabin is closed too and the grey car is gone, and even Robert's broken phone has disappeared. He huffs out a curse, despairing at the realization that he can't reach Aaron without his burner, and stomps his heel into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. A good half a minute later, all shine gone from his black leather shoes, he remembers the earpiece in his pocket.

He sees no obvious way to turn it on and gets no sound when he holds it near his ear, and for a moment he fears Lachlan's broken it somehow when pushing him around. But, after some squeezing and tapping and calling out, "Hello? Hello?" he hears a tiny voice, and shoves the comm into his ear. 

"—re tapping into my frequency here, buddy," a girl with a very familiar accent informs him. 

"I know," Robert says, probably a little too loud given the earpiece's surprisingly good sound. "Aaron gave me one of your comms," he elaborates. 

There's a heart beat of silence and then the girl lets out a delighted little, "Oh!" and cackles before exclaiming, "You're the cunt!"

Robert gasps out an indignant, "Excuse me?"

The child speaking into his ear chuckles, then explains, "Wentworth Raymond Sebastian Taylor, the third. Con-man. Cunt."

The full name catches Robert unprepared, but it's nothing that a quick online search won't turn up —Wentworth Taylor has socials, articles about him, several shell corporations registered with Companies House— and he won't let it throw him off. So he scoffs dismissively, and starts heading back towards the gate. "How old even are you? You sound twelve."

"I'm old enough to doxx you, ya muppet," the girl spits back, and the only reason Robert doesn't laugh is that he's busy landing on the other side of the gate with a huff. 

His knees pop when he stands upright, and he has to hope no earpiece is good enough to catch that sound. "You can't doxx me, this identity is airtight."

"Mate, if I know it's fake, there are no limits to what I can do." Robert rolls his eyes even though she can't see him — _hoping_ that she can't see him— and gets in his car. "And I already know where you live." She makes a pause for effect before adding, "Cunt."

He snorts. "Christ, you're worse than your brother's annoying boyfriend."

She makes a huffing sound that Robert interprets as a _tell me about it_ , and asks, "Which one?"

"What do you mean, _which one_?!" Robert asks, more force behind it than he intended, then adds just in case she's serious. "Ross!"

Much to his dismay, the girl chuckles and says, "I can't keep track of all the blokes he's seeing." She makes an exaggerated shuddering sound. "And I don't want to."

Robert sees his own eyes widening in the rearview mirror. "How many blokes is he seeing?"

"Why? You interested?"

He sputters out, "W—What? No!"

"You sure about that?" Her amusement is clear as a bell and Robert is grateful that there are no witnesses to see him getting wrecked by two teenagers in a single day. 

"Shut up. I need to see Aaron," he bites out. 

"Do ya now?" she asks, a mocking little upwards intonation to her words.

"That's _not_ what I meant. Bloody hell." He tries to keep the frustration out of his voice, and doesn't quite succeed. "I have information for him."

"Information?" She hums. "So that's what we're calling it these days."

"Shouldn't you be at school?"

"Shouldn't you be planning your straight wedding?" He has no response to that, so he shuts up, and the comm goes silent for a few seconds. He's still fuming, trying to come up with a good retort, when the girl lets out a long sigh and finally speaks again. "Ugh, fine. That barn you met at before? He can meet you in an hour. Sound good?"

He feels relief wash over him, and relaxes back against the seat as he mumbles, "Yeah, that's great."

"Don't sound too grateful, jeez," the girl snaps dryly, and Robert can't bite back a small burst of laughter. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. Thank you so much, Liv, isn't it?" He pitches his voice dramatically low. "I am forever indebted to you."

"Can I get that in writing?" she immediately fires back, and this time Robert manages to swallow down the laugh, but not his smile. He's glad to find the fear has begun to recede. 

He takes a hand to his ear, finds his own eyes crinkling at the edges in the rearview mirror, and goes to pull the earpiece out, dryly informing her, "I'm hanging up now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, we are posting chapter 7 (or the second part of _5 days to the wedding_ ) in the middle of the week. chapter 8, or the last part of this day, will come out friday, and then we are back to regular schedule until the end —chapter 13, on december 4th.
> 
> after last chapter's reveal, it was brought to our attention that not everybody has actually watched hit tv show **leverage** (created by chris downey and john rogers) and, of course, we couldn't let that stand. so here goes:
> 
> starring aldis hodge, gina bellman, christian kane, beth riesgraf and some other dude; leverage follows a band of thieves turned vigilantes that help people who have been fucked over by corporations, capitalists and politicians.
> 
> it has everything you could ask from a tv show: found families, crime, a mockumentary episode, soon-to-be-oscar-winner aldis hodge, a sequel with most of the original cast coming 2021, and the closest thing to a canon throuple to ever graze a tv screen back in 2008-2012:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> anyway, as we were saying. next chapter up on friday. watch leverage.
> 
>   
> 


	8. something wretched about this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of the engine outside brings both dread and relief, heart thrashing against the bounds of Robert's ribcage, air catching in his throat when he sees Aaron approach the gate. Robert looks up at Aaron's barely-there smile and can't help but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _no tired sigh, no rolling eyes, no irony_

— [ _From Eden_ , Hozier ](https://open.spotify.com/track/5aRZk9oWIYUB5alrTs8TTV?si=_D3rv1eoQmSU_EB_lfsb_A)

###  **only 5 days to the wedding**

The sun is already behind the barn and sinking towards the horizon, the light coming in through the high windows and painting long stripes of yellow on the curved wooden walls. 

Robert waited outside, sitting on the hood of his car, for about ten minutes; before he got bored and decided to pick the lock holding the chain at the gate closed. So many times he did the same thing as a kid, snuck in with his siblings or with a girlfriend into just about every farm in a five villages radius, slept in quite a few after dad ran him off too. Not three days ago he was telling himself that person was gone but now, sitting on a tightly packed haystack, with the smell of freshly moved earth overwhelming his senses, the past feels impossibly close. He could be kissing Katie against the side of his dad's truck, playing football out on the fields with Andy and Daz, trying to cover his face from Andy's fists after he found Robert and Katie in bed, sharing stolen chocolates with little Vic. It's the thought of Victoria that turns the memories sour, the fear of never getting to see his little sister again rising up his throat like bile. 

The sound of the engine outside brings both dread and relief, heart thrashing against the bounds of Robert's rib cage, air catching in his throat when he sees Aaron approach the gate. Lachlan and Vic and Chrissie and the past and the con and his exit plan and anything that is not Aaron disappears, washed away by that wave of surprise-panic-euphoria-relief again. This time Robert looks up at Aaron's barely-there smile and can't help but smile back. He doesn't mean to, but his voice comes out almost a whisper when he says, "Hi."

Aaron stands at arms length with his hands in his front pockets, raises his eyebrows a little and replies with an amused, though friendly, "Hi."

Robert bristles a little seeing Aaron all but laugh at him, moves to get up and tries to stand tall. But he is coming to Aaron with his tail between his legs, so maybe he _should_ cede a bit of ground. He tilts his head, looks at Aaron through his eyelashes, mumbles, "Sorry for running off earlier."

Aaron scoffs, takes half a step closer and Robert can't help but mirror the movement. "I let you go."

Robert rolls his eyes, makes a face, but he dismisses it with a, "Right, whatever," and keeps it moving. He shrugs, and reaches into his jacket's inner pocket. Aaron doesn't react to it, doesn't brace for the possibility that Robert will pull out a weapon, and that almost wounds Robert's pride. But he has the brief, wild thought that maybe Aaron _trusts_ him, and again feels that thrashing in his chest. He pushes the notion away, says in his plainest voice, "Anyway, I'll help you. I've got Lachlan's phone."

Robert holds it up and Aaron takes another step closer, reaching out as he dryly replies, "Good."

But Robert snatches the phone with his other hand and holds his arm out to the side, tells Aaron, "First, I've got conditions." 

He wants to come off serious, but Aaron breathes out an annoyed little huff, and Robert can't help his own smile. The fear clung to his heart so tightly a minute ago is all but gone now that he's got Aaron close. Aaron tilts his chin up, looks at him with a frown on his brow. "Go on then."

Robert wets his lips, sees Aaron's eyes flicker downwards, and his heart skips a beat. But he knows what he expects to get out of this, he's had a whole hour to practice this, and his voice is clear and confident when he reads out his line: "Chrissie's left out of this, and nothing happens until after the wedding. We leave on our honeymoon and then you have two weeks."

A sharp cackle escapes Aaron, who appears to find this hilarious, but Robert sees the edge to it. Aaron's laughter cuts off abruptly and Robert wants to kiss the angry twist out of his mouth. "So she doesn't know you're…" Aaron gestures vaguely in the air. "What —bisexual?"

"I'm straight," Robert shoots back immediately. Aaron snorts.

"Right."

Robert reminds himself of his earlier thought —he has bigger things to worry about, he can't waste his time on silly arguments about his sexuality. There are no arguments to be had, anyway, because he's straight. Obviously. He holds the phone between them again. "Look, do you want my help or not?"

Aaron tilts his head and the sunlight paints a stark contrast on his face, the line of his brow casting deep shadows over his eyes. "You know I do."

"Then leave my fiancée alone and we'll stay on good terms."

He really doesn't intend for the _good terms_ to come off so loaded but it clearly does, Aaron raises his eyebrows and his eyes leave Robert's for a second, quickly trace the lines of his face before he holds his gaze again. Aaron's accent is thick, his voice studiously devoid of emotion when he says, "You'll want to be there for her, for the fallout. Obviously." 

"Obviously," Robert lies, trying to project confidence, and Aaron's mouth tightens into a line. "Chrissie doesn't know half the shit Lachlan's done. She'll be devastated, but she's a survivor. Like me." Aaron raises his eyebrows again, and Robert worries he may be laying it on too thick. He tries for earnest, more grounded and less grandiose. "I love her, I'm going to take care of her."

Aaron doesn't seem to buy one word of it, responds with a deadpan, "Lucky her." 

Can't get pulled into it, Robert reminds himself. He has to buy himself enough time to make his escape, can't get sidetracked now. He tries to concede a little ground, be diplomatic. "Ten days. Do we have a deal?"

Aaron switches his weight from one leg to the other, rolls his shoulders back, nods. "Yeah, we've got a deal." 

He doesn't want to but finds no good reason not to, so Robert offers him Lachlan's phone. He manages not to react to the brush of Aaron's fingers against his knuckles but only just barely, and his stomach somersaults when Aaron extends his right hand for him to shake. It's an even briefer handshake than their last, Robert pulls back almost immediately and Aaron mirrors him, both stepping apart —one step backwards and then they both pause, eyes searching faces, like they're waiting to see which way the other will move. After a second Aaron gives him a crooked smile, lets out a long, teasing, "So…" and Robert eyes the door, the patches of orange that have begun to appear as the sun sets. It's not that he doesn't know what he _needs_ to do. Aaron raises his eyebrows in that way Robert's seen him do so many times already, toothy grin taking over his face as he asks, "Did you want sommat else or…"

"No, I'll jus—" An interrupted hand gesture, Robert glances at the door again and then at Aaron, sees the amusement clear in his eyes, and stops before he can finish the thought. Aaron bites back his smile, tongue coming out to wet his lips, and Robert thinks or maybe says, "Fuck it," and he kisses the laugh off of Aaron's mouth.

Desperate, hands grasping at Aaron's face, Robert licks at the roof of his mouth, at the edge of his teeth, at the corner of his lips. He feels the shape of Aaron's grin when he presses open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, his cheek, the crinkled corner of his eye. Aaron's hands are at his jacket lapels, apparently undecided between pulling Robert closer or pushing the jacket away, and Robert feels the smile pulling up at the corners of his own mouth, finally lets go of Aaron's face and neck and Aaron takes the opening to shove the jacket down Robert's arms. It falls to the floor somewhere at his back, and it's possible that Robert steps on the phone in its pocket when he pulls Aaron close by the waist and kisses him again, but he genuinely doesn't care. 

Aaron makes this annoyed huff of his again when he realizes Robert's shirt has like two dozen buttons, and something tightens in Robert's chest. He wraps Aaron's hands in his and pulls them away, makes quick work of the buttons himself in spite of Aaron's mouth on his neck putting the steadiness of his hands to test. Suddenly Aaron laughs, pulls away from their kiss to say something just as Robert begins unzipping his hoodie and they stumble backwards. "I know Wentworth's not—" Aaron starts, but Robert tries to pull the hoodie off him, and they stagger into the haystack, kicking up a cloud of loose hay and dust in their fall. Aaron laughs into the crook of Robert's neck, finally manages, "—your real name, by the way."

The straw is gentle on them when they fall but impossible to get any leverage on, Robert braces his forearms at each side of Aaron's grinning face, chest pressed to chest, hips fitting easily between Aaron's legs, a hitch to both their breaths. "Does it matter?" he asks, goes to kiss Aaron's mouth —but Aaron turns his head and Robert presses an open-mouthed kiss to his jawline instead. 

Robert kisses up behind his ear, down the side of his neck, feels the soft rumble of Aaron's voice under his tongue when he mumbles, "Well, you know who I am," and Aaron's hands are cold on Robert's skin under his undone shirt, every name he's ever used disappears from Robert's mind. 

"It's Rob—" Fuck. "—ry. Brakewell." Fuck, Robert thinks again, and feels Aaron's laughter ripple against his own body. He wants to bury his face into the hay so he doesn't have to see Aaron's ever again.

"Did you just say _robbery_?"

"Rory!" Robert scrambles to support his weight on one elbow, tries to put on a serious face when he looks Aaron in the eye and repeats the name of his _stupidest_ alias, the only one he could come up with while so distracted by Aaron's touch. "Rory Brakewell."

Aaron snorts, his fingers dig into Robert's back, pull him close. He speaks against Robert's mouth. "Because that's more believable than Wentworth Taylor."

Robert wants to argue _Rory Brakewell was a real person_ , instead he bites at Aaron's lower lip hard enough to make Aaron gasp, sucks where he's just bitten, and pulls back to ask, "Can you shut up?"

Aaron scoffs at that, shoves at Robert's shoulder and gives the back of his shirt a tug when he bites back, "Can you?" And Robert allows himself to be pushed away, manages to sit back on his calves but, rather than fully taking off his shirt, he grabs at Aaron's undone hoodie and pulls him up for a kiss. Aaron grabs at his shoulder for balance and pushes the shirt away again, laughs into Robert's mouth as he straddles his lap and presses down against him and Robert groans, bucks up, tries to grab Aaron's waist but finds his half-off shirt limits his movement and scrambles to finally get rid of it instead. Aaron snorts. 

"I can't fucking stand you," Robert mumbles as he tries to get his arms out of the shirtsleeves, but it comes breathless, punctuated by a groan that's almost pained when Aaron grabs the back of his neck to find balance and grinds down on him slow and with intent.

"Right," Aaron mutters, manages to keep his voice surprisingly level for a bloke sitting on somebody else's dick, but he can't hold back the shit-eating grin for long and adds in a tone that fails to pass for serious, "And you're straight." 

Robert _almost_ starts arguing, but manages to get a hold of himself just as the words are about to spill from his mouth, and rolls his eyes at Aaron instead. He's sure he can feel every indentation of his zipper against his erection right now, and he truly doesn't care about anything that's not getting himself and Aaron out of their clothes. So he finally tosses the shirt somewhere behind them, and Aaron's laughter dies down then, the smile still on his lips but a new intensity to his eyes as they leave Robert's face. His gaze wanders down Robert's torso, follows Aaron's own hands as they dig fingers into his bare upper arms, run up the line of his shoulders, press palms on Robert's chest and feel the unbridled pace of his heart. Robert has never needed to be reassured of his own appeal to other people, and yet he can't help but preen under Aaron's gaze, can't bite back the cheeky grin that takes over his mouth, can't do anything but wrap an arm around Aaron's waist, pull him closer and kiss the last traces of the smile off his face. 

Robert pushes the hoodie off of Aaron's shoulders, follows it with his hands down his biceps, gets distracted trying to kiss a mark on the side of his throat right above the neckline of his t-shirt. Aaron shifts against him to finally get rid of the hoodie, and Robert bucks up, resents the strain on his thighs, wraps one arm around Aaron's waist again and topples them both back down, ripping a startled burst of laughter out of Aaron as they sink into the straw. 

They get distracted for a moment, kissing and laughing into each other's mouths, rolling in the hay like teenagers, a momentary impasse as their eyes adjust to the growing darkness. It doesn't last long though, soon enough Aaron's teeth and tongue remind Robert that he was trying to get him naked. He groans when Aaron sucks on his tongue, ruts against Aaron's thigh, reaches to pull his t-shirt up. He feels Aaron tense against him and the kiss breaks almost immediately, Robert scrambles to hoist himself up on one elbow and searches the shadows on Aaron's face for a cue. It's half a second, a heart beat before Aaron grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him back down for a biting kiss. 

Robert leaves Aaron's shirt alone, gets to the task of undoing his jeans instead, and they stumble and stagger to get shoes and trousers off. Robert tosses Aaron's jeans, Aaron mutters, "Fucking 'ell, Wentworth," and scrambles in the dark for his wallet. In the moment it takes Aaron to find it, several stupid ideas cross Robert's mind.

"It's Jacob," he breathes out. Aaron, who is turning back towards him while triumphantly holding up a packet of lube, frowns at Robert in confusion. Then it clicks, a tentative smile appears at the edges of Aaron's mouth, and Robert's stomach does that jumping thing again, and he's so fucked, so-so-so fucked.

"Yeah?" Aaron asks, hesitant. 

And he's surely got a right to be skeptical after _Rory Brakewell_ , so Robert tries to muster as much honesty as he can possibly convey. It's almost true, after all. He offers Aaron his hand and Aaron takes it, letting himself be pulled closer, tilts his chin up and Robert looks him right in the eye when he half-lies, "Yeah."

Aaron's eyes search Robert's face for another heart beat before he whispers, "Okay," and Robert decides he must have been convincing enough. There's no playfulness left after that; a simmering intensity as Robert pulls them down into the pile of straw and finally, finally, presses their bodies together; a low groan falling from Aaron's lips and into Robert's mouth.

They fit against each other easily, Robert feels the slick head of Aaron's dick slide against his thigh and it makes him feverish, he shifts and thrusts his hip to repeat the motion —gets little relief when his own erection brushes the cotton of Aaron's shirt— and Aaron pushes up against him, clutches at his shoulders, tilts his chin up and Robert kisses the neck that offers itself up. 

He pulls at Aaron's neckline to lick the hollow space between his collarbones, slips a hand under his shirt briefly to feel the coarse hair on his stomach and, when he finally wraps his fingers around Aaron's erection he can feel against his lips the breath catching in Aaron's throat. Robert tugs at him experimentally, kisses the warm skin below Aaron's ear as he teases the head of his dick with his thumb and Aaron digs his nails into Robert's lower back, thrusts up into his grasp.

Robert wants to suck a mark on Aaron's neck but, most urgently, he wants to get his mouth on Aaron's dick. He thinks he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything else in his life and that is surely an insane thing to think, but he's distracted pushing Aaron's knees apart to find a place between them, can't look twice at his own thoughts before they disappear. When he pushes Aaron's shirt up an inch to lick up the vee of his hip Aaron doesn't seem to mind, and Robert thinks he'll get it off next time, but the thought is gone before he can examine all the disastrous implications wrapped around that _next time_. He bites at Aaron's hipbone, feels Aaron's dick twitch in his hand, and then there are no more thoughts.

Precome tastes bitter on his tongue when he wraps his mouth around the head of Aaron's dick —Robert's eyes fall shut, his nails on Aaron's thigh dig into the muscle. He sucks sloppily at the crown and shifts his grip around the shaft, quickens his stroke, Aaron rewards him with a bitten-out curse and an aborted hip thrust. It's no small effort to open his eyes and make out shapes in the dark but the sight of Aaron is worth it, shirt bunched up to show the firm muscle of his stomach twitching from the effort of staying still, head thrown back, teeth biting into his fist when Robert finally moves his hand away and fully takes him into his mouth. Robert gets a firmer grasp on Aaron's thigh, presses his other arm over his stomach to hold him down before he sucks in earnest, and doesn't get caught off guard when Aaron's hips buck up in response. 

It's far from a stellar blowjob but —if the heaving of his chest and the groans stifled against his palm are anything to go by— Aaron doesn't seem to mind, and with every curse and moan that Aaron tries to hold back Robert becomes more determined to get him to stop doing that. Still watching Aaron's reaction through his eyelashes he lets go of his thigh, moves his hand between Aaron's legs, and when he rubs at the sensitive skin behind Aaron's balls and tongues at the head of his dick at the same time, Aaron barely manages to stifle the whine on his mouth with his fist.

Robert pulls away from Aaron's dick with one last suck at the head, sits back on his calves between Aaron's thighs and replaces his mouth with his hand while he tries to spot anything that looks like shiny foil among the hay around. After a too-long moment Robert's starting to fear that he'll need to look for his phone to use the flashlight; but Aaron hoists himself up on one elbow —chest heaving, lop-sided smile— and shows Robert that he's got both condom and lube in his other hand. Aaron starts joking, "Lost som—" and Robert considers telling him to shut up, but he pulls him in by the back of his head and kisses the words off his lips instead. 

It can't have been five minutes since they last kissed and yet Robert could swear it's been an age, finds himself groaning into Aaron's mouth, the force of his own want hitting him like a blow to the back of the skull. Aaron throws his arm around Robert's neck to hoist himself up so he can lick into his mouth, figs and twigs digging a criss-cross pattern into Robert's knees as he bites and pulls at Aaron's lips. He manages to keep stroking Aaron through the kiss despite their unsteady balance, lets go of his dick briefly to tease and tug at Aaron's balls and Aaron moans into his mouth. He pulls back to pant against his lips as Robert strokes him again, presses their foreheads together, and Robert opens his eyes to find Aaron's heavy on him, pitch black in the dark. 

When Robert shuts his eyes and kisses Aaron again it's only because he wants to, not because he can't stand the weight of Aaron's gaze.

He lets go of the back of Aaron's head and grabs at his arm blindly while they're still kissing, Aaron goes to release the hand that is still around his neck to give him the lube, and when they inevitably lose their balance the soft pile of straw softens Aaron's fall onto his back. Aaron's body laid out only for his eyes causes Robert's hands to fumble with the packet of lube, the sight of Aaron's eyelids falling shut as he grips his own erection makes Robert dizzy with want. And fuck, he could watch Aaron stroking himself for hours and memorize every well-practiced movement to replicate it later with his own hands —but Robert knows _later_ may never happen, and he doesn't want to think about that, he doesn't want to think at all. Finally, he manages to rip open the foil. 

There's a slashing scar that starts at the dip above Aaron's right hip and disappears under his shirt, what looks like it was once a bullet hole on his upper left thigh —that one is closer, Robert presses a wet kiss to it as he teases a lube-slick finger against Aaron's entrance. Aaron gasps, tilts his hips up to give him easier access, doesn't stop stroking himself as Robert's middle finger slides into him easily, bites into the back of his other hand to silence a moan. Robert almost resents him for it, feels like he's being robbed of his well-deserved spoils.

So he sucks right over the bullet scar while he pulls his finger out and presses two in just a bit too brusquely, relishes the way Aaron arches up, the whine that escapes through the spaces between his fingers. Robert bites and licks and sucks at the skin of Aaron's thigh as he works him loose, until there's a purple bruise around the white of the scar, until Aaron's breath is coming out in short shallow gasps. He pulls back before he adds a third finger so he can see Aaron: an arm thrown over his eyes, jaw slack, the black t-shirt bunched up over his ribs, no attempt made to bite back the long, almost-pained moan that tumbles from his lips. The feeling of triumph that swells in Robert's chest is accompanied by a twitch of his dick, a want that hurts like a stab to the groin. 

Up to the last knuckle and out and again, and again, and again, and then Robert shifts his wrist and hooks his fingers up and knows he's found Aaron's prostate when he sees Aaron's fingers tighten around the base of his dick to rein his arousal in. He presses up and rubs and Aaron clenches around his fingers, bites out a breathy and unsteady, "Fuck, Jacob," and Robert's stomach drops. Hearing this name —his middle name, his go-to alias, the name he went by for so many years back in Leeds— from Aaron's lips only makes Robert want _more_ , want to bare himself without masks or lies, to leave a mark on Aaron that lasts longer than any bruise or scar. Aaron lets out a shaky breath, drops the arm away from his eyes, props himself on his elbow so he can look at Robert with unfocused, impossibly dark eyes. Robert's hand moves in another short thrust inside him and Aaron's voice breaks a little when he impatiently asks, "Gonna fuck me or what?" 

Robert thinks or says yes, yeah, that's _exactly_ what he wants, the _only_ thing he wants. He eases his fingers out and Aaron gasps, bites his lip, stills the movement of his hand. In the seconds it takes Robert to find the condom again and rip it open he considers changing their positions —not so much due to the ache on his knees but because the idea of Aaron on all fours makes his brain short-circuit— but he discards it soon enough, decides he much prefers to see Aaron's face when Robert makes him come. 

When he finally, finally takes a hold of his neglected erection, Robert's eyes press shut on instinct, he can't possibly swallow down the groan that forms at the back of his throat. He feels only more feverish when he opens his eyes to Aaron's burning stare, the hand on his dick matching the pace of Robert's own slow, tight strokes. It takes Robert another few seconds to regain a semblance of composure and roll the condom on, and Aaron watches him intently through it, a hint of a smile on his half-open lips that widens into a grin when Robert grabs hold of his thighs again. 

He drops his weight forward, hands sinking into the straw at Aaron's sides, and leans in to steal the sigh from Aaron's mouth. Aaron wraps both arms around his neck and kisses back deeply, pulling Robert down with him as he falls onto his back, and they knock their teeth together and pull back to press their foreheads against each other and laugh. And then Aaron shifts, hooks one ankle on Robert's lower back for purchase and presses his arse against him, and Robert doesn't need to be told twice. 

He pulls back as far as Aaron's hands around his neck will allow him, braces himself on his left forearm, grabs his dick in his right hand. When Robert presses against his entrance Aaron bites his lip, and Robert tries to commit to memory the hitch of his breath, the flutter of his eyelashes as he pushes in. Robert means to watch every second but it's too much, the heat and the pressure and the way Aaron gasps out his name —almost his name, his almost-name— are all too much, and so he squeezes his eyes closed, rests his forehead against Aaron's, lets out a shuddering breath. Then he pushes the rest of the way in in one swift thrust, pressing his open mouth to Aaron's, each swallowing down the other's moans. 

For the longest moment they just kiss, wet and deep and biting, making up for the stillness of their hips with the frantic thrust and grind of tongues. And then Aaron shifts his hips, and pulls back from the kiss to threaten Robert with a raspy, "Jake, if you don't—" that gets interrupted by another kiss as Robert pulls half-way out, bites Aaron's lower lip, and thrusts back in. He feels more than hears Aaron's low groan. 

They kiss and they fuck and they fuck and they kiss until Robert's face burns from Aaron's beard and Aaron's lips are red and swollen from Robert's teeth; and then they just press their foreheads together and breathe the air from each other's lungs as Robert thrusts into Aaron and Aaron makes the most of the little leverage he has to meet Robert's movements with his own hips. Aaron's nails digging into his back more than make up for the straw indenting itself into his knees, and Robert should probably worry about the marks but they're the last thing in his mind. 

The thoughts that come to him now, as he pushes into Aaron's body and feels the hot puff of his breath against his own mouth, are disconnected and half-delirious, impossible things like what would Aaron look like in bed at dawn and what sounds would he make if Robert were to push his tongue into his arse and what would Robert not give to fuck Aaron in every room at Home Farm. Dangerous thoughts to have. So instead of thinking he untangles himself from Aaron's grasp to hook an arm behind his knee, grabs him by the opposite hip to pull him closer and when he leans forward to kiss him again Aaron's body folds pliant under his. He thrusts his tongue into Aaron's mouth, and drives himself into Aaron's body with renewed momentum.

There are no bitten-back noises, no pretenses left now. Their kisses become shallow, eventually just a brush of lips, and Robert moves to kiss Aaron's cheekbone, the sweat on his temple, the slight furrow on his brow. His free hand buries into the hay to find support and he holds himself up, a breath away from Aaron's flushed face, as he changes the rhythm and angle of his movements, pulling nearly all the way out before he tugs at Aaron's calf to hook his ankle over his shoulder, and slowly thrusting back in until he's buried to the hilt. The whimper that falls from Aaron's mouth has Robert trying to push even deeper, and he knows immediately that it'll play back in his memory for many nights to come. 

Slow and deep is good, almost too good —Aaron buries one hand into Robert's hair and grabs onto his bicep with the other, throws his head back as a steady stream of moans and gasps fall from his lips, offers his neck for Robert to bite and lick— and every time he pulls back Robert has to fight the urge to just let loose and fuck himself into Aaron's body at a rhythm that matches the furious pace of his heart. 

Feels like they've been here for hours and a too-short minute at the same time, the sweltering simmering heat almost unbearable and yet Robert wants nothing but to make it last. He wants to steal every last second from this moment, commit every hitch of Aaron's breath to memory, burn his kiss on Aaron's skin like a brand. Here with his eyes closed, jaw slack, folded under Robert's body in their bed of straw, Aaron's everything Robert could ever want.

Robert shifts the angle of his next thrust ever so slightly and he gets it just right. Aaron bites into his own lower lip in a way that does nothing to silence his moan, digs his fingers into the back of Robert's upper arm, drags his nails down Robert's scalp. So Robert does it again, with more intent now that he knows the angle to find Aaron's prostate, and again, and again. Still slow but building towards inevitable crescendo, the sweat-slick slide of their bodies so intense it could create steam. 

He's been gripping Aaron's ankle on his shoulder and it actually takes him a second —he stills his thrusts with his hips pressed flush to Aaron's arse— to rework his balance so he can keep their position and manage to free one hand. In the momentary respite, Aaron opens his eyes, and Robert can see an edge of blue around his pupils in the moonlight. Hand still tangled in his hair, Aaron pulls him down for a kiss and Robert goes willingly, settles his weight on his left elbow and briefly grasps with his right hand at Aaron's jaw to tilt his face up. When Robert finally thrusts his body forward again Aaron tugs brusquely at his hair and sinks his teeth in Robert's bottom lip, and there's no mistaking the stutter of his hips, the whimper like a wounded animal that spills from Robert's mouth. He can feel the edges of Aaron's smile against his lips. 

He claws at Aaron's neck and tugs at the cotton of his shirt and scrapes his nails down the trail of hair on his stomach before he finally, finally wraps his hand around Aaron's dick; and Aaron rewards him by grazing his teeth against Robert's tongue as he lets out a low rumbling groan. The angle isn't exactly right —their bodies are too close together for Robert to comfortably move his arm— but it's good enough, Robert's thrusts soon picking up speed as he does his best to match the pace with his hand. Aaron's hand against his nape doesn't let go, he keeps licking and biting at Robert's lips even when all Robert can do is pant into his mouth, the heat too much, the pressure too much, Aaron's body too much for Robert to possibly be able to kiss back. The hand that had been gripping his bicep moves up his shoulder, down his back, grabs at his arse as if to pull him closer —as if it were possible for them to be any closer— and Robert tightens his grip on Aaron's dick, speeds up the movement of his hand.

It won't be long now, Aaron's teeth and his clawing fingers and the whimper that escapes his mouth tell him that. And so Robert drives into him at a brutal pace, chasing every moan, every whine, every hitch of Aaron's breath. It's a well timed slam against his prostate and his thumb pressing into the dripping head of his dick that does it, Aaron pulls painfully at his hair and throws his head back into the straw, makes a sound that's more a cry than anything else, clenches down around him as he comes all over Robert's hand. Robert bites into the flushed skin of his throat as he strokes him through it, Aaron pulsing and softening in his loose come-slick grip, and he can feel every sound Aaron makes vibrating under his lips. It's his name —"Jacob, fuck, Jake…"— that finally gets him to let go. 

He helps Aaron shift his leg down —kisses the groan off his mouth— and relishes the way he immediately hooks his ankles behind Robert's lower back. Then Robert drops his weight on both his forearms and buries his face in the crook of Aaron's neck as his thrusts become shallow and erratic. Aaron's body is loose, pliant under him but he keeps his tight grasp on Robert's hair, tugs at it purposefully once, twice, third time _hurts_ and Robert's gone, gone, gone. He comes mumbling a string of incoherence against Aaron's neck, hands fisted into the hay, mind empty of anything that's not _AaronAaronAaron_ , whispering his name like a plea as his hips stutter and finally still. 

He can't say how long he stays there, sweaty forehead pressed to Aaron's shoulder, heaving chests pressed together, come drying on Aaron's belly. Aaron's hands run up his back, down his arms, through his hair, and all Robert wants to do is melt. Eventually, after what could just as well be a minute or an hour, the sweat cooling on his skin sends a shiver up Robert's spine and he presses a kiss to Aaron's jawline before half-hoisting himself up. 

The sight of Aaron's tired half-smile and heavy-lidded eyes makes Robert's stomach drop all over again. He shouldn't do it —it feels an awful lot like he's sealing his own fate— but he kisses the smile on Aaron's lips because he can't fathom doing anything else. It's deep, and slow, and terribly tender for two people who have known each other for less than a week and spent most of it getting in each other's way. He'll come up with excuses for it later, after he's done stealing the breath off Aaron's mouth. 

It's Aaron who breaks their kiss, pressing closed lips to Robert's mouth one last time before giving his shoulder a gentle push. He pulls out with a groan and a hand holding the base of the condom, ties it off and tosses it into the dark for some poor farmhand to find. The night's grown cold and they dress quickly, passing each other their respective clothes, trading smiles in the dark, and brushing and patting the hay off their clothing as they pull it on. Robert doesn't miss the groan when Aaron pulls his shirt over his still-sticky stomach, and meets Aaron's grimace with a mocking grin. 

Their eyes are used to the dark and he can just make out the faint red mark he left on the crook of Aaron's neck. It sends heat up his nape again, and he wants to kiss over it and turn it into a bruise but Aaron's standing at arm's length and Robert finds he doesn't dare. It would be too much, too possessive, too intimate. Not what he wants, surely, and even if he did, Aaron can never know that. But Robert feels feverish and dizzy all over again, half-tempted to drag Aaron back down into the hay, to ask if they are doing this again, to kiss him until all Aaron can say is yes. 

Instead he pats his jacket pockets, pulls out his phone, and is pleasantly surprised to find the screen intact. Not so much to see a few texts and a missed call from Chrissie —he said he would be in town meeting with his solicitor about an investment or whatnot, and the hour to reasonably be back from such an engagement is long gone— but he'll worry about that in a moment. Aaron starts walking towards the gate without him and Robert pockets his phone again, follows him outside. 

"I feel like I should ask about Ross," he calls after Aaron, who's just set foot out of the barn. He turns to look at Robert, who catches up with him in two long strides, and gives him what looks like a genuinely confused frown. 

"Why?" 

"Well, you and he…" Robert trails off, gestures vaguely with his hand, gives Aaron a pointed look. Aaron rolls his eyes. 

"It's not like we're engaged," he replies, raising his eyebrows when he says _engaged_ , and it's not what Robert hoped for but it's better than what he expected. Aaron gives him a toothy smile and asks playfully, "What, you've never had friends with benefits before?" 

Robert doesn't dignify that with an answer. Instead he takes a step closer, tentatively moving back into Aaron's personal space, and feels warm satisfaction settling in his chest when Aaron doesn't step back, tilts his chin up to meet his gaze instead. "He gives off the impression of being quite invested in your relationship," Robert explains. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shrugs like it's no big deal. "I just wanna know if he's gonna, like, bust my kneecaps or something." 

Aaron chuckles, gives him a crooked grin. The waning moon hangs sharp and white in the clear sky, not nearly as bright as the amusement in his eyes. "Don't worry, I can handle Ross." 

Again not quite what Robert wants to hear. "So…" He shifts his weight, digs the heel of his shoe into the grass, realizes he's fidgeting and forces himself to still. "You can't promise he won't try to break my kneecaps?" he asks, only half-joking, and Aaron only gives him a half-smile. 

"Not for the reasons you're thinking." A beat, then the smile gets wider, cheeky grin taking over his face. "He just thinks you're a muppet."

Robert snorts at that, and for a few long seconds they just stand there, grinning at each other. It's easy but it feels fragile, and Robert decides to walk away before he can fuck everything up. He takes a step back, gives Aaron a one-shouldered shrug as he pulls out the keys to his car. "Well, you can tell him the feeling is mutual." 

Aaron's low laugh is genuine and warm. He nods, shuffles his own car keys from one hand to the other and offers Robert a parting smile before he turns to his car. "Will do," Aaron calls without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is a robbery brakewell stan account.](https://youtu.be/y0K-pR7qLZA) —eris
> 
> after reviewing all of my published and unpublished fanfiction —and my original shit too just in case— i can effectively confirm that this is the longest piece of just straight up pornography i have written thus far. but, to be fair, we did have to make it up to y'all after the 1500 words of chrissie getting her salad tossed in chapter two. next friday, robert gets pegged. 
> 
> just kidding! no, i'm not. yes, i am. ...or am i? —drea


	9. changed the name of the game 'cause he lost it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not guilt that he feels, not really. It's knowing that his days left by Chrissie's side can now be counted with just the fingers on his hands, that his time is running out, that he needs to get out before he's buried under the rubble when the Whites' whole life comes crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a breather of sorts, a brief impasse for robert to catch his breath and for the consequences of his actions to catch up to him. but things will start heating up again next week, worry not! —drea

_it doesn't seem right  
_ _to take information  
_ _given at close rang  
_ _for the gag and the bind_  
 _and the ammunition round_

— [ _Not About Love_ , Fiona Apple ](https://open.spotify.com/track/0WDARMlKHcDBm1r0PGaFCI?si=hI6rfsXyQfeYn8tNunqlCg)

###  **4 days to the wedding**

Chrissie has the habit of waking up and immediately checking her phone, and the tap-tap-tap of her nails against the screen always wakes Robert up. He doesn't mind —he usually relishes the chance to linger in bed with her— but today, when the sound of her low chuckle at whatever email or news headline she's reading brings him to consciousness, he finds a feeling of unease already pooling inside his chest. Robert keeps his eyes closed, face pressed into his pillow, breaths slow and even; giving himself a minute to get his anxiety in check and go over his script. 

It's not guilt that he feels, not really. It's knowing that his days left by Chrissie's side can now be counted with just the fingers on his hands, that his time is running out, that he needs to get out before he's buried under the rubble when the Whites' whole life comes crashing down. And sure, he's not exactly happy or proud that he's about to break Chrissie's heart, but that was always part of the plan. He just didn't expect it would hurt him, too —and he planned to come out of it with much more than a few hundred thousand pounds. But he'll have time to lick his wounds and rework his five-year timeline in a few days, once he's left Home Farm behind. Right now, he still has a role to play. 

He stirs, groans, rolls over to look at Chrissie with sleep-heavy eyes. She's half-sitting against a throne of pillows, hair delightfully muzzled, sheets pooling at her lap, and greets him with a soft smile and a low, "Good morning."

Robert throws an arm over her waist, digs greedy fingers into the soft silk of her nightgown. Despite the ache in his chest, he smiles back. "Morning." 

The sharp angle of her jaw is briefly painted orange when she turns to put her phone down on the bedside cabinet and a sunray hits her face just right. She's striking, rarer and far more beautiful than any art piece he's stolen so far. She loves him, he knows that —it would be impossible to fake the crinkle at the corner of her eyes. Sometimes he wonders if she could love _him_ , not Wentworth, and it feels like a needle stabbing into his chest. "You got home late last night," she says, voice soft and raspy as she turns back towards him and shifts to lie on her side. She fits easily against him, their legs tangling together as she breathes a contented little sigh onto his collarbone. Robert presses a kiss to her forehead, mumbles a reply into her hair. 

"My solicitor wanted us to dine with a curator of a new gallery in Manchester." He adds a twinge of annoyance to it, for effect. "Some postmodernist exhibition or something."

She looks up at him through her lashes, big clear eyes showing him the reflection of a man he can hardly recognize. Her voice is a caress, her little cheeky smile the prettiest thing he's ever seen. "I didn't know you were interested in art."

"I like you, don't I?" 

He grins, and Chrissie lands a playful slap on his chest, rolls away from him as she says, "Wow." Robert gives her an affronted pout and pulls her back in by the waist.

"What?"

Chrissie sighs when he kisses her collarbone, hooks her foot behind his calf, and Robert can see that she's trying and failing to bite back a smile. "If we weren't getting married in four days, I think I'd have to break up with you for a line like that."

He laughs into the crook of her neck, "If I recall correctly, I pulled you with a line like that."

"No, you didn't," she argues, and her short square nails scratch playfully down his back. Chrissie falls back against her pillow and Robert follows her, digs elbows on the pillow framing her head, feels the smile taking over his own face when he looks down at her. She looks awfully proud of herself when she corrects, "I asked you out like a normal person."

And she did. Of course that Robert had laid the stage carefully —crossed her path a few times beforehand, caught her eyes at a café once and then again just when she was getting in a taxi, made sure to stay within her line of sight at the charity event where she finally approached him— but he wanted her to make the first move. It wouldn't have worked with just any mark but with her, his patience had paid off.

"That's what I love about you," he says, not really thinking the words through. Her short low laughter punches the air out of his lungs.

"What —my brutal honesty?"

And fuck, he's running out of time anyway, this whole thing is going to implode in ten days and he plans to be far, far away from here by then. And maybe there's a twinge of guilt in his chest. Maybe he can hear Aaron saying, _all set to break her heart one day_ in his head. Maybe this is him, baring his heart to her. "You go after what you want. You don't back down. You say what's on your mind." He can barely stand to hold her gaze, can only hope his eyes don't look as watery as he feels them. But his voice is steady, his smile genuine when he adds, "So, yes, I do love the brutal honesty too."

It's a physical pain, the way she looks up at him so open and trusting, the knowledge that she'll soon be ripped from his grasp. He doesn't even consider staying, of course. He doesn't think he has it in him for that kind of self-sacrificial love. But when she gives him that small sweet smile and whispers, "You know what I love about you?" he almost wishes that he was a different —a better— kind of man.

But he's not. He's a liar and a thief, and the cheeky smile and playful tone comes easy to him when he decides that's enough truth for today. He jokes, "Everything?" and the loaded atmosphere is gone just like that. Chrissie rolls her eyes and Robert presses a kiss to the pulse point under her jawline, feels the ripples of laughter under his mouth.

"I love the way you butter me up," she says finally, and Robert pulls back to look at her, shifts to rest all of his weight on one forearm and runs his fingers through her hair. Chrissie looks up at him with big bright eyes, and there's nothing fake about the awestruck grin that takes over Robert's face.

"Hard not to," he tells her earnestly, and she rewards him with a fond smile. Not just fond —trusting, devoted, content. Robert runs greedy eyes over the lines of her face, tries to commit the sharp angle of her jawline to memory with his hands. He digs his fingers possessively into her side, drops a soft kiss to her temple and whispers into her hairline, "My drop dead gorgeous fiancée."

Chrissie laughs, jokes, "Soon to be your drop dead gorgeous wife," voice hitching and getting breathier when Robert's hand finds its way between her legs and teases her with feather-light fingertips over her cotton underwear. With one last press of lips to the corner of her eye Robert pulls back, relishes the sight of her hips arching off the mattress and the color rushing to her face. He runs two fingertips over the fabric in slow dragging motions until Chrissie's all but thrusting up into his touch. 

He deftly pushes Chrissie's underwear aside, finds her already wet and slick, barely teases at her entrance before he runs his middle finger up between her folds and a shuddering breath tumbles from Chrissie's mouth. He lies, "I can't wait," just as he decides that if he's only got a few days left with her, he's gonna make them count. With two fingers he circles her entrance, pushes in just the one fingertip and Chrissie's eyes flutter shut. He thinks this is the image of her he wants to take with him, face soft and lips parted, eyelashes casting shadows over the line of her rosy cheeks, soft warm hands clinging to the sides of Robert's rib cage. He feels the urge to say _I'm sorry_ , says, "I love you," instead. 

She throws her head back against the pillow when he finally pushes two fingers into her, her voice is a sigh when she says, "I love you too."

* * *

They kiss under the showerhead for the longest time, kiss against the kitchen counter with the coffeemaker groaning and gurgling in the background, in the doorway while Chrissie insists she's going to be late for her lunch, on the driveway with the keys already in the car lock. Eventually Chrissie jokingly swears she's coming back and places one last peck on his lips before stepping into her car. He watches her disappear down the road and wonders if he's going to feel like this for the next week, for the next month, for the next year. 

Robert can't allow himself to linger in the feeling. He has jewelry to steal, passwords to double-check, a getaway to prepare. Robert plans to disappear during their honeymoon, and that means he needs to have everything ready by wedding day. He rushes across the driveway and pulls the front door open with intent, reminding himself he has no time to waste. 

He finds Lachlan standing in the hall, waiting for him, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest. "Where's my mobile," Lachlan doesn't ask, but rather states. 

Robert startles and stumbles backward, catches himself on the doorframe, makes a massively poor job of recomposing himself before he replies in what he can only hope is a convincingly confused voice, "Why would I know where your mobile is?"

"I'm not stupid, Wentworth," Lachlan deadpans. So not convincing at all, uh? Robert swallows around the knot in his throat, and Lachlan takes a step forward, insisting, "Come on."

"I don't know where it is, mate. Sorry." Robert raises his hands in a placating gesture, but the frown on Lachlan's face only deepens. Lachlan doesn't seem at all willing to move out of the way, and Robert decides if the kid's gonna be a shit, then he will too. "Good luck though. Lots of nooks and crannies to hide things away here."

"Now," Lachlan starts, and he's got a painful hold on Robert's elbow before he can turn to leave, tugging at him in a way that forces Robert to crouch and meet his eyes at Lachlan's level, see the cold sharp fury in his gaze when he says, "I know you haven't forgotten our chat yesterday."

He hates that the kid makes him genuinely afraid, hates the way his voice comes out a little shaky when he replies, "No, I remember." The second Lachlan loosens his grip, Robert pulls his arm free with a tug, stumbling a bit on the step outside the front door as he walks backwards and lies through his teeth, "But I still don't know where your mobile is." His words are rushed when he adds, "I'll let you know if I see it. See you later, yeah?" and manages not to break into a run only through an extraordinary feat of willpower and pride. He does rush though, hurrying away from the house in strides as long as his legs will allow, praying to a deity he doesn't really believe in that Lachlan won't follow, forcing himself not to look back. 

Only when he reaches the stables does Robert dare turn his head. He sees the empty lawn, the now closed door of the house, and sighs with relief. The two horses that Lawrence doesn't really ride huff when he walks into the building, Troubadour whines when Robert slams the gate shut behind him and nearly falls back against it. After a few seconds of staring at him with their big inquisitive eyes, the animals seem to understand that they are not going to receive any treats from Robert and stop paying him any mind.

Robert pats his blazer pockets, finds that he's got the house and car keys on him but not his wallet nor his phone. The thought of walking back into Home Farm, of being alone with the little freak, makes his stomach turn. As if getting bullied out of his own con by a gang of losers with a hero complex wasn't pathetic enough, now a teenager has him scared to go into his own home. Well, not his home for long anyway. 

It takes him another good minute of just standing there like a right mug, splinters from the wooden gate catching into the fabric of his blazer as he takes deep breath after desperate deep breath, before he thinks of the earpiece. There it is, thank fuck, sitting at the bottom of his inner pocket, and this time he manages to turn it on at the first attempt. 

He thinks the comms may give off some kind of signal when turned on, because he's only just pressed it into his ear canal when the same girl from yesterday greets him with a cheerful, "Sup, cunt."

He would roll his eyes, shoot back a nasty remark, but he's got no time for that. He knows he still sounds rattled when he breathes out a rushed, "Liv, Lachlan's asking about the phone. I need it back as soon as."

There's a moment of silence and Robert finds himself staring at the beams that hold up the roof, expecting the girl to comment on how anxious he sounds. He thinks he can hear the clattering of a keyboard but isn't really sure. Finally Liv makes a clicking noise with her tongue, unnervingly clear inside his ear, and says, "Yeah, no problem. We've got all we need. You can pick it up from the scrapyard whenever."

"Great, thanks," Robert breathes out, already pushing away from the door at his back and turning around. After a few minutes inside the dimly lit stables, the morning sun has him squinting his eyes. He takes a hand to his ear as he begins walking back towards the driveway, mutters an awkward, "Uh… Bye?"

But before he can pull the comm out of his ear, Liv says something that stops him in his tracks. "It's good you're doing the right thing, y'know."

He looks towards the house, half expecting to find Lachlan's dead stare, but all the windows that face this way have their curtains drawn. He still keeps his mouth as still as possible when he replies through his teeth, "Well, I don't care about your Robin Hood wannabe brother or his band of merry men. I just don't like Lachlan."

"So, you just steal from anyone then?" Liv asks, all snotty and judgemental like the Dingles don't have a reputation for kneecapping folks. 

Robert scoffs at the empty driveway, looks over his shoulder and throws the house one last wary glance before unlocking his car. "No, I'm not an idiot. You can't con an honest man." He shuts the door, turns the keys in the ignition as he adds, "I just don't have a lot of interest in giving back to the community."

The girl doesn't reply straight away, silence stretching while he reverses and turns the car around. When she speaks again she sounds thoughtful, and Robert wishes he could put a face to her. "It's not like you're getting anything out of this though. It's gotta be more than some grudge against a weird teenager."

Robert sees his brow furrowing in the rearview mirror and, even though Liv can't see it, he schools his expression into a blank. It helps, his voice comes out cool and steady when he says, "He threatened me. I don't take kindly to threats."

"And yet you still chose to work with us," Liv shoots back immediately, something like amusement in her voice. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. 

"Hardly chose. You lot won't leave me alone."

Liv laughs, and his mind conjures up Vic's grinning face to fill up the empty space. He wonders how old she is, remembers the way Aaron tensed up back in the barn when Ross gave away her relation to him. Not that Aaron's protectiveness says anything about Liv's age —Robert knows that Vic will always be his baby sister, even when they are both wrinkled and grey. 

"Aaron really hates this kid," the girl says, and sounds serious, if a little pensive to Robert's ears. 

He feels himself frowning, can't help but object. "He doesn't even know him." 

"But he knows what he did. What he's like." On the other end, Liv falls silent. Robert takes a turn right. He knows hatred intimately, can hold a grudge like no other, but he can hardly imagine hating somebody who's never done him or his any harm. He barely felt more than disdain towards Lachlan a couple days ago and, even now, most of his resentment towards the little freak could be boiled down to Robert's wounded pride. After a long span of empty, silent roadside, Liv speaks again. "Aaron said he wouldn't know what he'd do if it was me."

Robert finds himself gripping the steering wheel too tightly again, words escaping him before he can stop to think them through: "Kill him."

"What?"

"If somebody did that to you. He'd kill him. It's what I'd do if it was my sister." 

He regrets the words once they are out of his mouth —not because they're not true, but because they are. Must sound it, too, because Liv latches onto them, immediately prods, "So, the mysterious Wentworth Taylor has a sister."

"I didn't say that. It's a hypothetical." His voice is steady on the lie but the little humming noise Liv makes says she doesn't buy it. Robert wonders if she's raising her eyebrows in the way Aaron does, imagines her round-faced and blue-eyed. He's not far from the scrapyard now, and the thought of Aaron makes Robert's heart skip a beat.

"There's a conscience in there somewhere, isn't there?" she asks, sounding an awful lot like her brother. The question brings a genuinely amused smile to Robert's mouth. 

"Jury's still out on that one."

"What about Rory Brakewell?" Liv shoots back. He straightens up in the driver's seat.

"Aaron told you about that?" he asks, and makes an effort to bite back the other questions that rush to the front of his mind. What else did he tell? How did he say it? Did he tell her ab— 

"Yeah, why wouldn't he? It's not like it's your real name." Liv sounds patently uninterested in his silly alias, instead insists, "So?"

"So what?"

She lets out an annoyed little huff and, not for the first time, Robert marvels at how good these comms are. Were they any better, he would be able to hear the sound of her eyeballs rolling in their sockets. "Does Rory Brakewell have a sister?"

Robert thinks well, not gonna let the sister thing go then. He dismisses the question with a dry, "Not really a fully fleshed out alias, that."

He takes his right hand off the steering wheel and brings it to his ear, opens his mouth to speak but isn't fast enough. "What about a conscience?" the annoying little girl asks. 

He responds with a short, mirthless laugh; looks straight ahead at the road because he's afraid he'll catch his own eyes in the rearview mirror and not like what he finds. She waits in vain. Already pulling the earpiece out, Robert tells her, "Bye, Liv," and taps the comm off. 

* * *

The closer he gets to the scrapyard, the faster the beat of his heart. By the time he crosses the open gates it feels like the bloody thing is trying to burst out of his rib cage, beating out _Aaron Aaron Aaron_ like a drum inside his chest. The cheap grey car is there, a bunch of tools piled up on a rusty metal chair, what looks like motorcycle parts spread out on the floor. No Aaron in sight though, and it's almost a relief, it gives Robert a moment to just sit inside his car and breathe in and out, waiting for his heart to slow its pace while the engine cools down. 

The voice of a football commentator comes out through the portacabin's open door, Robert can make out movement through the window when he steps out of the car. And there his heart goes again, _AaronAaronAaronAaron_ , eager and foolish in a way that has Robert struggling to recognize himself. Fuck, he may be actually going insane.

He can't turn back now though —can't show up at Home Farm without the bloody phone— so instead he straightens his shoulders, fixes his collar, and walks straight ahead. He steps through the open portacabin door like he owns the place, stops in his tracks the moment he meets Ross' gaze. He does a good enough job of keeping his face straight, but that leaves no space for him to think his words through and what comes out of his mouth is a terribly earnest, "Is Aaron here?" that he immediately wishes he could swallow back down. 

Ross is sitting on one of several cheap plastic chairs, feet propped up on a melamine desk that seems about to give in under the weight of the stacks of paper on top of it, with a plastic takeout tray on his lap that looks like it once held Mexican food but now has only bits of lettuce and guac and a few crumpled up paper towels. A big copper radio so old it could be called vintage is playing a Bayern versus who-the-fuck-cares match. Without moving from his position, Ross stretches out one arm and turns the volume on the radio down, tosses the plastic tray on top of one of the paper piles, and lets out a terribly rude burp before dignifying Robert with a response.

"You're in luck. It's just me."

He could have actually guessed that himself, but the confirmation still makes Robert's stomach drop to his feet. The confidence in his expression falters if only for a moment, he makes up for it with a snarky, "You've got a funny definition of luck."

Ross rolls his eyes, and when he takes his boots off the desk and sits up, Robert has to stop himself from taking a step back. But Ross leans back against the chair, settling in place with his knees apart and his feet firmly on the floor, and studiously folds his arms over his chest as he tells Robert dryly, "No, I'm just being sarcastic." He gives Robert a brief, mean grin, and there's mockery ringing clear in his voice when he next speaks. "You do know what sarcasm is, don't you, Mr. Brakewell?"

Well, fuck. So Aaron didn't just tell Liv. Robert hates to even think how that conversation went, imagines Aaron saying something like _guess what this fucking clown said to me_ ; but he mostly dreads what else Ross could have been told, despairs in not knowing what the bloke does or doesn't know. He could and definitely should just ask for the phone and leave before he can find out just how right or wrong Aaron was about Ross' inclination to kneecap him, but Robert's never learned how to leave things well alone. "No, I have no idea what sarcasm is." He pauses for effect, adds, "That was sarcasm, by the way."

Ross' left hand flexes where it rests on his left bicep, but he doesn't move to stand —yet. It probably makes him an idiot, but Robert can't help but rejoice in knowing that Ross is ticked off. The bloke is obviously trying to come off as bored, but the annoyance is clear in his voice when he asks, "Why are you here, Wentworth?"

"Picking up Lachlan's phone before he kills me and the body disappears," Robert replies, no need to lie about that. This seems to bring Ross genuine delight, and he gives Robert a toothy grin.

"Bold of you to think I won't kill you and make the body disappear," he replies around a smile, and Robert can only hope it's a joke. Maybe it isn't, and Ross is just playing it cool to try and catch him off guard, get him feeling a little comfortable before he picks up the old metallic radio and bashes Robert's head in with it.

Robert plays along, looks appropriately confused, asks, "Now why would you want to do something like that?"

"I'd be doing you a favour, mate," Ross replies coolly.

"How d'you figure that?" Robert holds back the urge to glance at the door.

"I'd off you in a quick and humane way," Ross offers with that shit-eating grin of his, just on the threatening side of mean. But it doesn't sound like he is truly pissed off and, though Robert reminds himself that he shouldn't make the mistake of underestimating Aaron and his people again, he doesn't see anything _fake_ in the bloke's cruel amusement when Ross adds, "You know Lachlan's into murder… for the murder."

Yeah, he knows, thank you very much. But, though the thought sends a shiver down his spine, he's relieved to conclude that Ross doesn't know —or, less likely, doesn't mind— that Robert and his definitely-not-a-boyfriend fucked. He offers a nod of acknowledgement, no smile, and says, "Right. Well, since we've established that, can I have his mobile now?"

Ross gives him a perfectly fake smile as he unfolds his arms, but he straightens up and reaches to pull the phone out of his back pocket, saying, "Course, mate. Why didn't you just ask?" as he carelessly tosses the mobile at Robert. Robert scrambles to catch it and, once he's got it safely in his grasp, regards Ross with a deep scowl. 

"I… did…" 

Ross just folds his arms again and shrugs at Robert, looks him up and down with that mocking grin plastered on his stupid face. After a few seconds of this, Robert just rolls his eyes and pockets the phone. He's turning to leave when Ross speaks up again. "Oh, while I've got you here."

Robert's stomach drops down from his feet all the way through the portacabin floor. He thinks he really did not appreciate having two fully working knees enough before now. "Yeah?" Robert asks, voice steady in spite of the cold fear gripping his throat. Ross tilts his head to the side. 

"Crew thought we'd fix you with a wire to try and get some dirt on the little freak."

"Oh!" Robert says, actually surprised, and has to make an effort not to audibly sigh in relief. Under different circumstances he would surely think twice about it, but he's so genuinely glad that he gets to keep his kneecaps for another day that he agrees to it immediately, nodding a bit too earnestly as he says, "Yeah! Okay."

"Tomorrow work for you?" Ross asks and with that annoying grin of his adds, "If you're not dead yet."

"I've got wedding stuff with Chrissie in the morning, but the afternoon is good."

"Meet in the barn then?" Ross raises his eyebrows with the question, and Robert's voice definitely falters a bit when he asks, 

"The barn?"

"Yes, the barn." The bloke gives him a face like he thinks Robert's stupid, and articulates slowly when he speaks next. "Usually found on farms. Sometimes they're painted red or made of stone. Y'know, a _barn_." He juts his chin out, and gives Robert an inquisitive look. "You alright? You're acting very weird today."

Robert scoffs, feels his internal organs hesitatingly settling back in place and tries to convince himself his previous guess was right, and Ross is not going to kill him —at least not today. "Like you care."

Ross nods slowly like he's actually giving it a thought, and finally says, "You're right. I don't." He unfolds one of his arms, and makes a shooing little wave with his hand as he tells Robert with an exaggerated posh accent, "Toodle-loo then, Wentworth. Have a lovely day." 

And with that, he reaches out and turns the volume of the radio up just as the commentator loudly announces — _and Sané scores!_

Robert takes his cue, and the voice from the radio follows him all the way back to his car.


	10. i see it to my own demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert has half a mind to turn around and walk out. But then Aaron's warm blue eyes are on him and Robert is stepping forward. Flame, moth —Aaron's smile bright like a blaze. "Well, if it isn't Robbery Brakewell!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay maybe _this_ is my favourite chapter. i'm not gonna say i enjoy writing lachlan because i hate lachlan but i do think i wrote a damn good scene that ended up being my favourite scene in the whole fic. whoops. —tuagh (the artist formerly known as eris)

_both my hands are tied  
_ _afraid of thinking i dug my own grave_

— [ _Put Me Thru_ , Anderson .Paak ](https://open.spotify.com/track/70SjyVMzhmMeJQD8hOmIBp?si=vuY5D8p2QdioshbQS1k3Hw)

###  **3 days to the wedding**

Yesterday, after he wiped any fingerprints off of it and dropped Lachlan's mobile under the living room couch, Robert waited an appropriate amount of time, and let Liv know to make it ring when Lawrence was near. Though of course Lachlan hasn't apologized for his earlier threats, Robert's hands are clean, and the kid has stopped throwing him nasty glares for the time being. Too bad Robert has already signed up to break their truce. 

The afternoon is claustrophobic under low-hanging storm clouds, occasional streaks of sun that manage to sneak their way out offering too small mercies. Robert is torn between deep unease at what he's agreed to, and hesitant hope that he'll get a moment alone with Aaron; but the heavy humid air stifles his optimism, makes him feel weighed down and slow, with every step more sure that he's walking himself into a trap. 

Robert wishes he could just enjoy these last few days. Every moment he spends with Chrissie makes his heart swell, knowing that the con is coming to an end shatters it the next minute. Last night he had a restless sleep, startling awake every time Chrissie rolled away from his grasp. Fuck, Robert wishes he could get a do-over on this hell of a week. And yet —his chest aches when Chrissie is near, but he only needs to _think_ of Aaron for his heart to race. He fears if he got a second chance, even knowing what he knows now, even knowing where this will end, he would take one look at Aaron and make the same mistakes all over again. 

It's stupid and it's irrational and it's dangerous, a feeling like this. It reminds him of how he felt with Katie, reckless and desperate and consumed by greed. But Katie was _Katie_ , and anyway, he could never feel that way about a man. Even if his heart is again beating out _Aaron Aaron Aaron_ as he walks up to the barn, Aaron is just— Robert crosses the gate and his heels dig into the packed dirt when he sees Aaron, _AaronAaronAaron_ , head tilted sideways, easy smile on his lips, eyes half-closed as Ross kisses up his neck. He's sure he can feel his heart stilling inside his chest.

He hates the breathy laugh from Aaron's mouth, hates the second it takes him to notice Robert standing there, hates Ross' hands on his arse and Aaron's fingernails scraping at the short hair on Ross' nape, hates every moment it takes Aaron to step away. Robert has half a mind to turn around and walk out. Childish, maybe. Tempting, for sure. But then Aaron's warm blue eyes are on him and Robert is stepping forward. Flame, moth —Aaron's smile bright like a blaze. "Well, if it isn't Robbery Brakewell!"

It stings a little, but there's nothing mean in Aaron's eyes, friendly amusement softening the lines of his face, and Robert concedes with a self-deprecating chuckle and a small, but genuine smile. "I'm never gonna live that down, am I?"

Ross hangs behind Aaron, Robert nods his acknowledgement at him and comes to a stop a few steps from them, still way too far from Aaron for his taste. Not even arms' length and there goes his heart, racing again the moment he's under Aaron's burning gaze. "Depends on how the rest of the job goes," Aaron says.

Two steps back and slightly to Aaron's right, Ross makes a face that shows just exactly what he expects. Robert glares past Aaron and at him as he says, "Right." Animosity hangs heavy in the already thick air, but Aaron only lets it play out for a second before he shakes his head at Robert and turns to look at the other bloke. 

"Ross, why don't you go check on Liv and I'll deal with this."

Though Aaron is now standing in the way, mostly hiding Ross' face from view, Robert could swear he sees him pout. "But it's _my_ tech."

Aaron mumbles, "I got this," and it's genuine distrust —not jealousy— that Robert catches in Ross' voice when he throws a look at him over Aaron's shoulder and asks, 

"You sure?"

Aaron chuckles, makes no effort to lower his voice when he dryly replies, "I think I can handle this idiot." Robert can't help but let out a petulant little scoff. Aaron's voice is softer when he insists, "You go."

Ross nods, gives Aaron a there-and-gone grin, then scowls again the moment he looks at Robert. "If you break my tech, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Will you be responsible when you end up in prison for fraud?" Robert shoots back, unable to keep the frown out of his brow.

"Will you?" Ross snarls, purposefully elbowing Robert's arm as he walks by. Robert goes with the movement, turns to call after Ross, 

"Big question from the man with the axe," and Ross immediately stops and turns back around, showing Robert his empty hands. 

"Sorry, forgot me axe at home." He points with his thumb over his shoulder and adds, "But I've got a guillotine around the corner, if you're interested in a more public execution."

Robert has to bite back a smile at that, but does a good enough job of keeping his face blank when he dryly replies, "Love the dedication to the flare, Ross. Keep up the good work."

Ross' lips curl at the edges as he very eloquently tells Robert, "Do one." 

"I'd love to, but unfortunately, you need me," Robert says, and Ross pushes a puff of air out of his mouth, frowns. 

"Yeah, don't remind me."

Robert is just opening his mouth to throw a snappy remark back when Aaron steps up to his side, shoulder brushing Robert's upper arm and immediately rendering him speechless. Aaron's profile is unreadable when Robert looks at him, his voice dry when he says, "Ross, just go."

It leaves no room for argument and, with one last roll of his eyes for Robert's benefit, Ross finally walks out of the barn. Robert turns on his heel to fully face Aaron, hates the second that Aaron's eyes linger on Ross' back but relishes the chance to just look at him. Finally Aaron turns to him, tilting his head inquisitively when he meets Robert's eye. 

Robert can't help the disdainful tone, the furrow in his brow when he asks, "You're seriously sleeping with that idiot?" 

Aaron's laugh is short and sharp, and the amusement in his eyes is genuine, a bit of a mean edge to it. "You're really starting to sound jealous now, y'know that?"

Heat rises up the back of his neck but Robert scoffs, injects as much derision as possible into his voice. "As if."

Aaron just raises his eyebrows at him, and Robert feels see-through under his gaze, unmasked, laid bare. As if he'd read his thoughts, Aaron says, "Great. Take off your shirt." 

Robert would make a joke, make a show of it, but Aaron looks away from him as soon as the words are out of his mouth, turning to point Robert towards the wooden workbench near the wall, where a powered-down laptop rests open next to a cardboard box full of listening gear. "We need to get this on you."

Aaron walks ahead, starts rummaging through the box while Robert takes off his leather jacket, not paying him any attention. After a moment's hesitation, Robert throws the jacket on the workbench and pulls off his sweater, tosses it with the jacket, goes to unbutton his shirt. The barn is cold, far colder than it was two nights ago inside the bubble of their shared body heat; and Robert makes slow work of the buttons while his eyes keep running away from him and over the line of Aaron's shoulders, down his arms, up his back. He itches to step closer, place his hands on Aaron's waist, kiss a mark on the back of his neck. Instead he forces himself to look away, studiously undoes his sleeve cuffs. He thinks he could probably keep the shirt on, shrugs out of it anyway.

He loosely folds the shirt so that it won't wrinkle too much, steps up to the workbench to place it carefully on top of his sweater, and lets his arm press against Aaron's. Robert looks at Aaron's hands as they deftly roll up a thin long wire, feels Aaron briefly glancing at him and then away. Robert may be posturing a little when he turns towards Aaron, shoves his hands into his front pockets, allows the edge of the workbench to dig into his hip. 

When at last Aaron deigns look at him, Robert positively _preens_. Aaron gives him an exaggerated eye roll, but Robert is sure he can see the corners of his mouth fighting to inch up, and makes no effort to hide his own cheeky smile. Aaron huffs, turns to face him and shows that he's already got the wire and lavalier in his left hand and the athletic tape in his right, tells Robert to grow up.

Aaron unrolls a stretch of wire, instructs him to hold it in place, and presses the end of it at the very top of Robert's sternum. There's no hiding the way he shivers under Aaron's touch and, holding the end of the wire against his own chest with his thumb, Robert lies, "Cold hands."

But Aaron looks up at him with the ghost of a smile on his lips and Robert loses any semblance of restraint. The end of the wire drops and Robert's hands are on Aaron's belt, tugging him closer as Robert kisses the reproach off his mouth. Aaron goes with the pull and tilts his chin up, lips opening easily for Robert's tongue —the hand clutching the roll of tape coming to rest against Robert's upper arm, the microphone and wire held out over the workbench, safely away from their bodies. 

He kisses Aaron with an intensity that surprises even Robert himself, laps at his mouth like it's a body of water and he's been dying of thirst. Robert's hands slide under Aaron's unzipped hoodie, press up against his ribs, roam over his chest, finally coming to grasp the sides of his face. Aaron moans into his mouth when Robert sucks on his tongue and scrapes fingers down his nape; Robert's mouth moves away from his lips and up the side of his jaw, and Aaron tilts his head, bares his neck for Robert to suck at the pulse point below his ear. 

The sigh that escapes Aaron's mouth has him dizzy with want, teeth dragging down Aaron's neck as his hands grab at his waist, his arse, the buckle of his belt. Robert palms at his crotch and Aaron lets out a startled laugh, the hand fisted around the cotton tape landing a playful bump on Robert's arm. "Ain't even got this on ya yet, Jacob." 

Robert immediately steps back, pulls his hands away from Aaron's skin like he's been burned. Aaron looks up at him with a slight frown, and Robert doesn't know what to do with his hands, shoves them into his pockets again as he mumbles, "Got a bit carried away." 

"Do you regret it?" Aaron asks, voice soft and laced with something like concern.

"What?" 

The furrow of his brow smooths away and Aaron gently clarifies, "Telling me your name." 

_No_ , he immediately thinks. Then, _yes_. Both feel true for the same reason. He tries for a smile but still feels unbalanced and unveiled, sure Aaron can see Robert's every thought written on his face. "As long as you don't tell anyone, I reckon we're alright."

"Yeah, I'm not thick," Aaron replies, no real bite to it, and Robert pretends to be seriously offended when he reminds him, 

"Told everyone about Rory Brakewell, didn't ya?" 

Aaron chuckles, gives him that faint smile that's barely a twitch of the lips, more of a kindling burning in his eyes. "Well, that was obviously a fake name. _Robbery_ ," he says, amusement ringing clear around the last word. "Change your mind halfway through an alias with Robert?" Aaron jokes, and when he goes to press the wire against his sternum again, Robert actually stays still and holds it in place. 

Mic deftly held between two knuckles, wire hooked around his wrist, Aaron pulls off a stretch of tape and brings it to his mouth to rip it from the roll with his teeth. As Aaron carefully tapes the wire in place, Robert deflects with, "Robert Brakewell doesn't have the same ring to it."

Aaron isn't looking at him, eyes fixed on the mic as he plugs it in place, studiously securing it against Robert's chest as he says, "Sounds a bit more believable though." He pauses to rip another bit of tape. "Can see it, actually." He falls silent while he finishes his work, tapping the wire to Robert's ribs so that it won't be visible under his shirt, yet the tape won't bother him when he moves. Aaron's clearly done this before and finishes in just a moment —but it feels like ages to Robert, whose hands press into fists inside his front pockets as he studiously counts every breath in and out of his nose. Aaron finally steps back and looks up at him, toothy smile taking over his face when he jokes, "I'd call ya Rob." 

Robert can only feel grateful that Aaron's hand is no longer pressed against his rib cage, his heart all but slamming against the walls of his chest. He tries to make it playful but his voice comes out soft, words punched out of his chest like a gasp; "Jacob not do it for ya?" 

Aaron snorts, shoves the tape into his back pocket and turns to grab the battery pack off the workbench. Robert is relieved to think the conversation is over, but Aaron gives him a smile that's almost bashful, and it makes his next words come off as a confession rather than a joke. "I don't think the name is what does it for me with ya."

Robert's stomach swoops, and he knows that if he doesn't kill this topic now he will end up doing something stupid, like kiss Aaron again —something insane, like admit Aaron's already made the right guess. So he schools the dumbfounded look out of his face, replaces it for a pompous little pout as he quotes in an affected voice, "A rose by any other name…" 

It works, the heavy mood finally dissipating as Aaron tries to bite back a laugh and only manages to snort instead, looks down in a futile attempt to hide his smile and shoves with his free hand at Robert's arm, telling him, "Shut it." 

Robert grins at him and Aaron rolls his eyes, bumps his knuckles softly against Robert's shoulder and tells him to turn around. He does, and the hand holding the battery pack comes to rest over Robert's hipbone, edge of the small plastic rectangle cold in sharp contrast to Aaron's warm skin. He pulls at Robert's belt, hand leaving his waist, and something clicks into place, holding the battery pack to the elastic of his boxer briefs. Robert is about to make a joke, but Aaron tugs at his waistband again and it dies just behind his teeth, heart tripping up over a beat when Aaron steps so close the cold zipper of his hoodie brushes against Robert's shoulder blade —then reaches around his waist, sliding his hand easily in the space under his arm, fingers splaying over Robert's rib cage and grasping for the end of the wire. Aaron mumbles something (a curse, or a joke) but Robert can't make it out through the blood rushing in his ears. 

And then Aaron's grabbed hold of the wire and is stepping back, knuckles brushing against the tender skin of Robert's ribs and sending goosebumps up his arms. Robert makes an effort not to hunch his shoulders, instead pulls his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms over his chest. A moment later Aaron's hands are grazing the small of his back again, plugging the wire to the battery pack, securing it in place with a patch of cotton tape. Warm palm pressing on the bare skin at Robert's waist, Aaron mutters, "Turn 'round," and Robert breathes out slowly before doing so, trying to get his stupid heart in check. 

Robert thinks he's managed to school his expression into something like nonchalance, but he sees the color in Aaron's cheeks and the half-smile and there his composure goes, arms falling away from his chest and hands reaching for Aaron's waist before he can think twice. This time Aaron's hands are free when Robert kisses him, one finding the back of Robert's neck while the other grabs onto his arm, thumb pressing into the pulse point at the crook of his elbow. And Robert really shouldn't let his hands wander, shouldn't step forward and press his thigh to Aaron's groin, shouldn't suck on Aaron's tongue and deepen the kiss to swallow his groan. Somewhere far in the back of his mind he thinks he should be careful not to undo Aaron's work and slowly, reluctantly, he eases away from the kiss, parting with a barely there brush of lips to the corner of Aaron's mouth. 

But having Aaron look up at him with parted lips and dilated pupils, feeling the scrape of his nails on the back of his neck is even harder than breaking their kiss; and when Aaron grinds the hard line of his erection against Robert's thigh his resolve is gone, his hands are on Aaron's arse and hoisting him up on the workbench, his mouth on Aaron's jawline, biting at his earlobe, licking up his neck. "Mess up my wire, why don't y—" Aaron jokes, but Robert moves to palm at his dick over his jeans and the rest of the reprimand is cut off by a low moan. He doesn't object when Robert undoes his belt buckle, lets his head drop to the side instead and offers the expanse of his neck for him to kiss. 

He gets his hand in Aaron's boxers at an uncomfortable angle, strokes him experimentally, feels the low rumble of his groan under his mouth as he sucks at Aaron's throat. Aaron digs his fingers into Robert's hair, tugs at it and pulls him up for a kiss, hungry and biting as he bucks into Robert's hand but it's not quite enough, not what Robert wants. He wants to get his mouth around him, make Aaron forget all the fake and real names Robert's given him when he sucks him off. He wants, and so he takes, kissing the admonition off Aaron's tongue when he pulls his hand away and tugging at his waistband instead, giving Aaron a moment to catch up with his intention and following him when Aaron leans back on his elbows so he can lift his hips off the workbench. Robert doesn't bother doing more than shove Aaron's jeans and boxers just under his arse, drops his weight on one elbow to lean over the bench and relishes the drag of teeth against his lower lip when he gets a hold of Aaron's dick again.

After a moment Robert moves to break away from the kiss and Aaron all but whines in protest, eyes opening to give him an indignant look; but Robert strokes him slowly and with intent, and can't help the grin that takes over his face when whatever Aaron was going to say becomes a gasping, "Fuck, Jake."

"C'mere," Robert mumbles, and manages to keep stroking Aaron clumsily as they scramble to straighten up, as they kiss briefly again, —Robert grabbing at Aaron's bare arse to pull him forward to the edge of the workbench, Aaron letting out a startled laugh against his mouth— but then he's dropping to his knees and Aaron isn't laughing anymore. With his left hand digging into Aaron's bare hip and his right still moving on his dick, Robert smirks up at him and earns himself an eye-roll, Aaron's fingers tightening in his hair.

If he didn't have a wire taped to his chest and a job to pull and an ever-narrowing window to catch the little psychopath home —Robert thinks, and sucks a kiss on the skin where Aaron's groin meets his hip— he would drag this out as long as he could, stroke Aaron slow and way too loose until he had him begging or threatening. Instead he thinks _next time_ , and he thinks _there are no next times_ , and _I've stolen a next time already, I can do it again_ ; and then he shifts his hand to grip the base of Aaron's dick and licks a broad stripe up the underside, finally gets his lips around the head and the bitten-back noise Aaron makes when he sucks at it instantly burns up every last circuit in Robert's brain.

He feels one of Aaron's hands leave him and hears the slap of it against the wooden bench, the other tightening in his hair as he bobs his head gracelessly up and down, trying and mostly succeeding at matching the pace with his hand. He's vaguely aware of the pulsing heat in his groin but it's only an afterthought compared to the sensation of Aaron in his mouth, the salty taste on his tongue, the fingers tugging at his hair just on the right side of painful. Robert finds himself moaning around Aaron's dick and the hand on the back of his head twitches —Robert doesn't have the time to realize what it means before the involuntary thrust of hips catches him by surprise and he's pulling off to cough. He presses his forehead to Aaron's hipbone and does his best to regain his composure, but Aaron mumbles, "Fuck, Jake, sorry, sorry," with such genuine concern that Robert can't help but laugh, and that only makes him cough some more. 

Aaron's fingers smooth his hair back with surprising tenderness, his other hand moving to cup the side of Robert's face; and Robert has to look up, has to meet the worried frown on Aaron's face with a cheeky grin, has to clear his throat one last time and —even as Aaron's thumbs move to wipe off the tears at the corners of his eyes— rasp out an, "Aaron, it's okay," and grip at his hips with both hands before he warns, "just don't fucking do it again," and gets his mouth back on his dick. It's clumsier without his hand, sloppier, but Robert gets the hang of it after a minute, a nice even pace, down as far as he dares to —which to be fair, isn't that much— and pressing his tongue up, feeling the line of a vein when he pulls back. 

He knows it's decent enough because Aaron is panting above him and his fingers keep twitching against the sides of Robert's face, little interrupted motions that eventually have Robert losing his patience and letting go of Aaron's hip to grab at his wrist instead. With his lips wrapped around the head of Aaron's dick he looks up, meets Aaron's heavy-lidded gaze and hopes he's being clear enough when he guides Aaron's hand to the back of his head and sucks with intent. He'll take the way Aaron's eyes fall shut and the hand burying into hair as a yes, thank you very much. 

It's not long after that, the bitten back noises spilling from Aaron's mouth giving way first to a string of muttered curses and eventually just moans, gasps, whispers like a plea, _JakeJakeJakeJake_. His jaw is just starting to ache when Aaron attempts a warning, "Jacob, I'm—" nails scraping at his scalp but Robert just tries to take him deeper into his mouth, digs his fingers into the soft skin of Aaron's hips as he hollows his cheeks around him, and Aaron comes down his throat with a broken whimper of his almost-name. 

Robert swallows around him, sucks at his softening dick again and gets in return a pained whine and a hair-tug, finally pulls off with a loud, wet pop that —he thinks smugly looking up at the dazed, sated look on Aaron's face— would put many a professional to shame. He doesn't need more than the soft nudge against the back of his head to stand up and move in for a kiss, pressing his mouth to Aaron's lips before he can make any unfunny remarks about the loud popping of Robert's knees. 

They kiss slow and deep, like Aaron's trying to lick every last trace of his own taste off Robert's mouth, and Robert somehow manages to forget his own neglected hard-on until Aaron slides off the edge of the workbench and pulls up his trousers, upper thigh pressing against Robert's groin when he cants his hips to zip himself up. Robert grinds forward —seeking friction— and Aaron indulges, presses his thigh up between Robert's thighs for him to rut against it and laughs a breathy laugh into his mouth, hands still clutching at Robert's nape and neck. But it's only a moment, and then he's breaking off their kiss, pushing at Robert's bare shoulders with those calloused, clever hands. "You said the kid's leaving at five," he says, and before Robert can protest, "we can't miss this chance."

"Are you winding me up?" Robert protests anyway and, when Aaron gives him his best attempt at a blank look, gestures at his bare chest, "Ain't gonna turn this away, are ya?" 

"You're not that irresistible," Aaron promises him, and his hand leaves Robert's shoulders to find the mic on his chest, his fingers pressing the tape into place; but there's no excuse for the hitch in Aaron's breath when Robert reaches to check the wire over his own rib cage and his fingers graze Aaron's over the tape; it stabs like a hot poke at Robert's groin. Still, Aaron bats his hand away and avoids his gaze, eyes firmly trained on his own fingers as he finishes checking that the wire holds safely and comfortably in place. When Aaron finally looks up at Robert, his face is still a little flushed, his voice more than a bit rough when he tells Robert, "Go on, get dressed," and in spite of the almost-painful hard-on and the pang of rejection in his chest, Robert can feel a stupid, self-satisfied grin taking over his face. Because he's an arse, and he obviously can't stand to let Robert win, Aaron adds, "Try not to get nicked, and I may return the favour."

Robert takes offense to that _may_ , and Aaron ignores him, and they end up making idle conversation while Robert buttons up his shirt. He's admittedly a little cruel about it when he talks about Lawrence, tells Aaron that the man has been downcast for a few days now but it only took one mention of _Danny_ during tea yesterday to get the old repressed bastard singing the praises of _that, I mean,_ those _enterprising young men_. He thinks he sees pity in Aaron's expression and, when Robert has his face half inside his sweater, he could swear he hears Aaron mumble something about folks lying to themselves. He gets his head out and pulls the sweater down, goes to fit the shirt inside his waistband, and Aaron steps closer again —a hint of a frown on his brow, something in his eyes Robert cannot quite read as he presses one hand over the microphone under Robert's clothes, and with the other fixes the neck of his shirt. He lets go, takes a step back, and the frown deepens when Aaron meets Robert's gaze. 

His voice is low and serious when he tells Robert, "Be careful."

Robert holds back the urge to scoff, to remind Aaron he's no amateur, to tell him that —unlike they have done with his con— he's not gonna ruin their precious plan. Instead he grabs his jacket off the workbench, gives Aaron a self-assured smirk as he shrugs it on. "I'm always careful."

* * *

Unease has settled at the pit of his stomach by the time he arrives at Home Farm, and he's relieved to see Chrissie's car is still nowhere on sight. Something that he doesn't want to call fear pulls at his ankles, slows him down as he makes his way up through the house. He can hear Lachlan playing video games, but wouldn't be so stupid as to confront him in the living room and risk Lawrence walking in. In any case, Lachlan is easy to bait —Robert only needs to make a bit of noise around the kitchen, step on the wooden stairs with a little too much force to get his attention.

He's pacing around the now-empty attic —completely cleared out of any damning evidence in the two days since he was last here— when Lachlan's head appears at the top of the stairs. Anxiety pierces Robert's stomach like a shard of glass. 

"You know you shouldn't be up here," Lachlan says, and the still youthful pitch of his voice sends a shiver down Robert's spine. 

He holds his arms apart from his body, showing Lachlan his empty hands. "I wanted to talk."

Lachlan gives him an unamused scowl. "We can talk in the kitchen," he says, sounding bored. Bored won't do. 

So Robert lets his hands fall to his sides, drops his chin just a little, offers Lachlan a smile that's almost meek. "I thought this was a conversation best had on your grounds."

Deep inside his ear canal, Liv mumbles, "Interesting tactic." Robert has to appreciate that her microphone clearly has the volume set low. 

Interesting or not, it makes no effect —Lachlan stands still as a statue and for the longest moment he just _stares_. Robert decides to give it another go. "Look, Lucky—"

"You don't get to call me that," Lachlan sharply interrupts. If he wasn't trying to ingratiate himself to the little freak, Robert would respond with an eye roll. Instead he nods. 

" _Lachlan_ , I know you've been having a rough go of it."

Lachlan lets out a derisive little huff. "Do you?" 

Robert briefly fantasizes of throwing a punch. But he doesn't, of course. He keeps his voice level without making it too soft, careful to project sympathy but not pity —a fine line to toe. "Your mum moves you around a lot, new schools all the time, your dad's not around…" He trails off. 

Lachlan's eyebrows raise on an otherwise perfectly inert face. Robert can tell he's losing him. "So?" the kid asks, still bored, maybe even more so than before. 

"So… You've been through a lot for someone your age," Robert tries. But no, that won't work. It's too vague —a nicety, a cliché. The voice of an old partner comes to mind, reminding him that every grift is an exchange. He has to find something to give Lachlan; a hook to keep him in place. "By the time I was seventeen, my mum had died in an accident. A fire." Robert thinks that Lachlan's eyes look a little less dead, so he reaches into his own chest and offers something more. "I was never good enough for my dad…" his voice wavers a little and Robert shakes his head, looks down at his feet before he meets Lachlan's gaze again. If nothing else, he thinks he sees a hint of interest. "So, I understand. Not in the same way, maybe —but you just want your mum to see you, right? You act out to get her attention."

Lachlan bristles at his last words, frowns. "Act out?"

Dropping his head and showing his palms, Robert tries to make himself as non-threatening as possible when he explains in a soothing, low voice, "I know a little bit about what happened with Fiona."

"What?" Lachlan seems so genuinely thrown at this that Robert has to wonder, yet again, just how little Chrissie knows her son. But he needs to show Lachlan that he's got his family's —his mother's— trust. So Robert makes a bet and hopes Lachlan won't call his bluff. 

"Your mum and I are going to be married soon. I'm gonna be your stepdad, Lachlan. I want you to see me as someone you can talk to. Someone who won't judge."

A condescending little snarl curls around Lachlan's mouth, nothing Robert tries seems to work. "I've got a dad already."

"But where is he? He let you down on your last birthday." Lachlan clenches his fists and Robert thinks fuck, wrong approach. He's got no fucking idea of how to convey fatherly benevolence, but gives it his very best shot. "He's not paying attention, but I am."

Lachlan replies through clenched teeth, a low bitten-out, "You keep paying attention, you won't like what you see."

Robert swallows around the knot in his throat, keeps his voice soft and even, "I said I won't judge and I mean it." He takes a half-step forward, just to see if Lachlan will react. He doesn't, but Robert doesn't want to push too hard, doesn't get any closer. "I get why you threatened me. You're scared. Scared people do crazy things. When I was your age I did crazy things. Things I can't even believe I did." After a second he adds, "Hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it?" —attempting to take some weight off his words. Lachlan clearly still takes offense at the implication.

"You think I _regret_ anything I've done?" he asks, bile laced around his words. "I haven't done anything wrong! She liked me, she _wanted_ me." The kid gives Robert a mean, derisive little sneer, spits out, "It was nothing." It makes the hair on Robert's arm stand on end. 

In his ear, he thinks he can hear Aaron's voice muttering something in the background, and Liv whispers, "Try and get details." 

The last fucking thing Robert wants are details. But, voice carefully level, he asks, "And what does nothing entail?"

Robert sees the line of Lachlan's shoulders tense, whatever ground Robert had started to gain vanishing the moment Lachlan clenches his jaw and gives Robert a cold, furious glare. "Nothing entails _nothing_ , Wentworth."

Liv again, accent thick like Aaron's as she bites out, "You gotta get summat, Wentworth." And fuck, he's not about to get anything this way. If he can't make Lachlan offer something in confidence, he'll have to try another tactic. 

Robert allows the disgust he genuinely feels to contort his face, to seep deep into words. "Of course you'd think it was nothing. Freaks like you always do," he sneers, and it's like striking a match, Lachlan's eyes lighting up with hot white fury at the word _freak_. But Robert can't take the words back now, all he has left to do is push through it, hope he makes it out the other side alive. "Think your victims deserved it? Asked for it? How many, Lachlan? How many girls have you stalked and harassed and scared? Made them think you were their friend only for you to turn on them when they didn't _want_ you."

Lachlan inches one foot forward, nostrils flaring as he says, "I haven't done _anything_."

Robert scoffs. "You mean Lawrence covered up what you did to Fiona."

He doesn't have time to regret it, Lachlan on him in a second, shoving at both his shoulders, sending Robert stumbling backwards, then grabbing him by the collar of his leather jacket to pull his face close. It's the worst kind of déja vu, but at least Robert's waiting for it when Lachlan tugs painfully at his collar again. "You think Fiona's the worst of it? She was just a teasing bitch who couldn't admit what she wanted." Lachlan has a firm hold on his collar, forcing Robert to meet him at eye level. "I told you, that was _nothing._ "

"Oh, do go on. You don't scare me," Robert lies, forcing his mouth to curve up in a shit-eating smile. He reminds himself that Liv is listening in. _Aaron_ is listening in. At least they'll have more than enough evidence to take Lachlan down if Robert gets murdered on tape. 

"I should. I should terrify you," Lachlan says, eyes and voice cold. There's a lump in Robert's throat. "You think I can't kill you and get away with it? Granddad would be _happy_ to help me get rid of you." Robert must be making a decent job of looking unimpressed —despite the cold sweat he can feel dripping between his shoulder blades— because Lachlan seems compelled to go on. "He covered up a hit and run already. Poor bloke didn't even do anything wrong. I just saw him and thought —why not?" In Robert's ear, somebody standing close to Liv lets out a low whistle. Lachlan's self-satisfied smile will surely be the subject of Robert's nightmares for years to come. "And no one will ever know." Lachlan nods just slightly, as if to himself, and begins to relax his grip on Robert's jacket.

"I know now," Robert snaps back, because he's an idiot, apparently. Lachlan's hand tightens on his collar again. 

"But you won't tell anyone, will you?" Lachlan bites out, and Robert gives him a curt nod, raises his hands a little. Lachlan doesn't seem content, suddenly shoves Robert and pulls him back sharply, causing Robert's neck to whip back painfully, and sneers close to Robert's face. "You won't tell mum. And you won't tell granddad you know what he did for me." Robert nods again, but this time it's meek, placating hands still held up at shoulder level. Lachlan smirks. "And you'll respect me."

"Right," Robert mumbles. 

Another tug at his already-strained neck. "Tell me you'll respect me, Wentworth."

Robert can't do anything but concede. His voice is appropriately weak when he says, "I'll respect you."

Lachlan's smile only gets more unnerving when it grows wider. He lets go of Robert's jacket, tilts his head to one side. His eyes look as close to _alive_ as Robert's ever seen them. "I think we're done here, don't you?"

"Yeah. Yes," He nods shakily. "Yes, we're done here."

Lachlan looks him over with the same disgust that one would show a slug, gives him a disdainful little scoff, and turns his back to Robert. He disappears down the staircase without looking over his shoulder once. His steps fade in the distance, but Robert still goes and checks the door before he dares to talk. 

"He's gone," he breathes out, no point in trying to hide the relief in his voice. Robert finds himself resting his back against the door, sliding to sit on the floor. He feels like he's just run a fucking marathon, like the air's been punched out of his lungs. His shaking hands reach into his waistband and unplug the battery pack. 

Aaron's voice, loud and clear into the comm, surprises him. "Good job. We'll look into the hit and run." He doesn't wait for a response, his next words already further away, no longer spoken into the mic. "I'm gonna talk to Cain. Ross, you coming?"

Even further, barely more than background noise, "Right behind ya, babe." There's a murmur of steps, what may be a door closing, and the frequency goes silent for a second. Robert shoves the battery pack in his jacket pocket, tugs at the bottom of his shirt to untuck it from his waistband.

While he's searching under his shirt for the tape he hears Adam's voice, just loud enough to be intelligible over Robert's still-too-loud breathing, "I'm gonna run out and get a curry. You want anything, Liv?"

Liv's still got her earpiece on, words perfectly clear when she mumbles, "I'm good, ta." Then, for the longest moment, Robert only hears his own shallow, frantic breaths; scratches at his skin trying to find the edge of the cotton tape, pulls the wire from under his shirt roughly. When Liv speaks again her voice is searching, but soft, that distinctive Dingle accent wrapping tightly around the words. "That was true, wasn't it? What you said about your mum and dad."

The question only makes breathing all that more difficult, and Robert can't find it in himself to lie. Instead he scrambles to get the comm out of his ear, telling her dryly, "I have to call the florist for the wedding," but his shaking fingers struggle to get a hold of the damn earpiece. 

"Wait, wait," Liv calls out, then lowers her voice again to ask, "Wentworth, are you alright?" 

"What?" he asks, dropping his hand away from his right ear and scowling at the empty attic. "I'm fine," he lies, left hand curling into a fist around the tangled wire.

Liv clicks her tongue, Robert imagines she's shaking her head in disapproval. When she speaks her voice is still soft, if a little annoyed. "It's just us, Wentworth. You don't have to pretend to be some big man. You can, like, talk to me or whatever." 

Robert snorts, dryly replies, "You're _twelve_ ," but he does feel like something in chest has started to loosen up. 

"I'm sixteen, idiot," the girl corrects, and adds, "but I was jacking cars at twelve," sounding all proud. 

He takes one deep breath, asks, "Start early in your family, don't ya?"

"Had to," she says, and then again that self-satisfied upwards intonation, "Blew up our house."

That startles a laugh out of him, the grip around his throat gives a little more. "You what?"

"Long story. It's how Aaron found me though," she offers and, before Robert can begin weighing the implications there, asks, "How'd you get into it?"

Robert realizes what she's doing: giving him a piece of truth, trying to get him to offer something in exchange. She's good —he wants to know what Liv meant by _found_ , but he won't get anywhere if he doesn't answer her question first. 

"Got kicked out."

"Why?" she shoots back immediately, surely trying to catch him with his guard still down. It's a cheap tactic and, as rattled as he still feels, Robert isn't about to bare his heart to this child. 

"Doesn't matter."

"Our dad sucks too," Liv offers. 

Robert hums, notes down _our dad_ next to _found_ in the very short list of things he knows about Aaron. He replies with a noncommittal, "Fathers. All pieces of work."

Liv chuckles, mumbles, "Tell me about it." Robert forces himself to take one long, careful breath through his nose, counting five seconds as he inhales; and relaxes his grip around the wire. Before he can accidentally snap the plastic microphone piece, he unplugs and pockets it too. He's just reached five seconds on the exhale when Liv says, "You can. _Tell me about it_ , that is."

"Why would I do that?"

Liv scoffs in his ear. "'Cause I'm not stupid. You obviously like Aaron, but you're all defensive about it. You've given us something like three fake names, even though we can trace ya."

He scowls at nothing in particular, asks, "Have you?"

"Traced ya? Working on it."

The next breath is much easier, and it feels like his heart rate may be returning back to normal at last. Robert rests his head back against the attic door, closes his eyes. "Which means you have nothing."

"It _means_ Aaron told me to stop digging." She makes a little humming noise. "He trusts you, for some reason."

He opens his eyes, doesn't even need to think about it, immediately argues, "No, he doesn't." He couldn't, right? Even if— No, he couldn't. "We're working together, but neither of us are idiots." Robert fumbles with the wire still in his hands, insists as much to Liv as to himself, "No thief trusts another thief."

"Doesn't work like that when you've got a crew," Liv tells him. Robert couldn't possibly know, but he won't tell her that. After a silence that could be her waiting for him to reply or considering what to say next, Liv speaks again. "But Aaron doesn't trust easily."

This makes something twitch painfully inside his rib cage, but Robert means it when he says, "That's good."

"He likes you though." Liv's voice is very level, dead serious. "Gets this look on his face like… I dunno."

He stares intently at his hands, no longer shaking, and starts methodically rolling up the wire before he tells her, "It's nothing."

"Is it? What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You like him. Like…" With just as much eloquence as could be expected from a teenager, she clarifies, "... _like_ him, like him."

Robert chuckles, hooks the end of the wire around itself to hold the roll together and shoves it into his other pocket. "He's alright," he concedes.

Liv scoffs. "It's not like your marriage is even real. Once you finish ruining that nice rich lady's life, there's no reason why you can't give it a go with him." 

Of course a child would think that. Robert finds himself shaking his head no, even though she can't see him. "That's not an option." 

"Why? Because you're a criminal, or because you really like your wife?" 

"Because I'm not gay, Liv." 

She snorts, but doesn't argue with him. Instead she informs him, "Ross keeps complaining about you." 

"The feeling's mutual." 

"Reckons you're jealous and repressed." Ah, Robert thinks, there it is. But he's not about to get dragged into it. 

"Must be hard with Aaron as a boyfriend," he deflects instead. "Looks to me like he's the jealous one." 

Liv makes a noise that may be a stifled laugh, says, "Don't really call each other boyfriends." Then, after a pause, "Not saying Ross ain't jealous though. He's proper jealous." She lowers her voice to a whisper, asks, "Should he be?" 

"Of me? Or Aaron's thirteen other boyfriends?" He immediately wishes he'd kept the _other_ out of it. 

"Thirteen seems a bit high. But of you, yeah. You can tell me. I'm not gonna grass to Aaron you like him or whatever. Like I said, I'm not twelve." Then a whisper again, like she's offering Robert a secret, "And anyway, he likes you too." 

"I'm not…" He interrupts himself, straightens his back, braces on the door to stand up. "I'm not gonna talk about this with you. That's your brother, for God's sake." 

Her voice is low and teasing when she asks, "You got a snog though, yeah?" 

"Oh, my God!" He busies himself brushing imaginary dust off his jeans, dryly tells her, "I really do have to ring the florist, okay?" 

"You did, didn't ya!" Liv lets out a delighted squeal, and mumbles —apparently to herself— "Aaron's an idiot." 

Little sisters are all the same, that much is clear. "It's none of your business, Liv," he says, bites back the urge to add a _shut up_. Instead he brings his hand up to his ear, tells her, "And I'm taking the earbud out now. Bye!" 

He goes to pull the comm out of his ear, and can hear Liv calling out, "You want me to pass him a note or—" before he finally turns it off. 

Robert takes one last measured breath, listens out for any movement in the kitchen below, and turns to open the attic door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if we keep procrastinating because we're in denial about being a chapter away from finishing writing this, no, we're not. (i know that we're the only two dumb motherfuckers who care about this fic but fuck, we are really proud of this one, and i definitely want us to go out with a bang. let's see how that works out.) —drea


	11. cut my teeth on secondhand sentiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissie is spending the night in the opposite wing of the building —overly fond of tradition in the way all rich people are, though Robert finds it a little endearing when it comes to her— which is rather convenient for him, no excuses needed to throw on a coat and sneak out for a midnight stroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is less about aaron and more about robert being a sad and chaotic lil repressed bisexual.

_i've gotten good at making up metaphors  
_ _i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape  
_ _and all these words are sweet and meaningless_  
 _you can't trust a single thing i say_

— [ _Metaphor_ , The Crane Wives ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2YCXrcSkNQtymvzWtwNYdo?si=KSfDA9a7SiqwvlVGkJNhHg)

###  **2 days to the wedding**

It started raining just before sunrise, a drumming downpour that gives Robert the impression that the house is gonna collapse on him, swallow him down. The water hits the windows at an angle, rattling insistently against the glass panes, and Robert cranes his already stiff neck to press his ear more closely to the door of the safe, wishing he had an amp with him. Fingers splayed on cool metal, he turns the dial again, and the tumblers click into place. The next second, thunder rumbles through the windows, and Robert's heart nearly startles out of his chest. 

He breathes deeply in and out, goes over his exit plan to get his heart beat in check. Robert lists each precious jewel and piece of art he has stolen from the Whites so far, slowly inventarizing his existing loot until he finally hits a one-million estimate and feels his breath settle into an even, relaxed pace. Even if he's wrong about the contents of the safe, even if can't get the information on the offshore accounts that he _knows_ Lawrence has, he'll still make it out of here with enough money to build a new identity, get his sister that apartment he's been meaning to, and live the good life for a few months before his next job. It won't be retirement money, but it's not like Robert would be leaving with his hands empty if he took his exit today. But no, he can't think like that. He's still got a whole week on Aaron's grace period, and he's not gonna leave anything but colored glass and art forgeries behind when he leaves Home Farm. 

The dial turns again, slowly, and Robert feels the mechanism shifting under his fingertips. The rain fades into white noise as he regains his focus and, when he finally finds the fifth position the click is clear as a bell. From his jacket pocket he pulls out a crumpled up restaurant receipt and a ballpoint pen, smooths out the piece of paper so he can add another entry to the four numbers he's already scribbled down. He's been at it for a good three hours now and he still has one more contact point to find, and then some seven hundred possible combinations to try. But he has time, he has time, and he has a perfectly good exit plan. Nothing to worry about.

He crumples up the receipt again, pockets it, rests his weight against the wall once more. It might have been a good four years since he last had to actually open a safe with nothing but its make and model and, though he likes to think of himself as a great safecracker, Robert much prefers it when it's other people opening the doors for him. If Aaron hadn't shown up, he wouldn't even be doing this. If Aaron hadn't shown up, he would have gotten Chrissie to give him the combination in another month, two at most. If Aaron hadn't shown up—he turns the dial to the next position, and feels the last wheel make contact. 

The rain fades into a soft drizzle while Robert tries out the first dozen combinations, starts picking up with the wind by the time he hits the thirtieth, breaks out into a downpour again before he's gone through the next ten. Sheets of rain beat a relentless rhythm against the window panes, wind whistles in through the crevices in the wooden window frames, the wheels of the safe click-click-click as he turns the dial —a battery of noise keeping him on edge. He enters another sequence, tries the handle. It doesn't move, and he bites out a curse.

Robert unlocks his phone to check the forty-ninth combination on the algorithm app he's using, but the bloody thing starts ringing in his hand and nearly makes him jump out of his skin. A blocked number is calling him —wait, no, not _him_ , Wentworth, so it's gotta be a spam call. Right? Right. Robert rejects it, and goes to pull up the algorithm app again, when a gust of wind slams the front door shut. He practically jumps away from the safe, feels his stomach drop when he realizes he left the office door ajar. 

He can hear movement out on the hallway, turns to make for the back door, realizes just how stupid an idea that is before he's even grabbed the doorknob —Robert can't just walk out into a bloody storm. 

Outside the office, Chrissie calls out with soft reproach, "Dad, are you still at w—" The door swings the rest of the way open, and Chrissie stops at the doorway, letting out a surprised little, "Oh!" when she sees him. Her voice pitches up in confusion when she asks, "Wentworth, what are you doing here?"

Robert looks up from the desk chair where he's just dropped, and hopes he's made a good enough job of looking like he's been slumped there for a while now. The sight of Chrissie at the doorway, barefoot and windswept, raindrops clinging to her hair, does nothing to slow the frantic beating of his heart. Robert offers her a tentative smile, a half-assed lie, "Just needed to get away for a bit." 

"Into the office?" Chrissie's eyes run over the room, but there's nothing for her to see. She walks up to Robert, a tiny thoughtful twist to her mouth when she says, "Not very exciting."

"Not much else to do with this weather," Robert tries, still scrambling for a believable excuse. He knows that he looks and sounds out of balance, can see it in the way Chrissie reacts to him. After a second hesitation, he decides to go with it. "Wasn't really in the mood for excitement anyway." 

Chrissie stops just out of arms' reach, brow furrowing with genuine concern. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

"What? No, of course not. I'm just..." He averts her eyes, tugs at a thread of genuine shame and guilt to lace his lie with. Finally, he looks up again, softly admits, "—thinking about my family, I guess."

"Oh, darling," Chrissie coos, walking up to him and stepping in the space between his legs, whispering, "come here," and opening her arms for Robert. Her hands steady him, one tracing loose patterns over his back as the other caresses his temple; while he wraps his arms around her waist. Robert looks up at her, finds her eyes unbearably blue and just as calm, turns his head and pulls her closer to escape her gaze. He presses the side of his face to her chest, feels her heart beating against his cheekbone. Her thumb traces the shape of his ear tenderly as she mumbles, "It must be hard," into the top of his head.

It's easier to be honest with his eyes closed, with Chrissie's fingers in his hair. "It is. Y'know," he whispers, "I keep wondering what Dad would think. Would Mum be proud?"

"Yeah," Chrissie breathes out, and tightens her arm around Robert's back. Her voice is soft and wistful when she confesses, "I've been thinking a lot about my mum too." And these are things that Chrissie has already told him, of course, but Robert still wishes he could stop her from sharing any more of herself with him. He fears she will inevitably come back to this conversation, assume everything _Wentworth_ ever told her was a lie, feel foolish for having allowed herself to show him the vulnerable parts of herself. Robert so badly wants to spare her the heartbreak. 

He pulls back from the hug, allows his hands to rest loosely on Chrissie's waist and looks up at her, at her bright trusting eyes. If nothing else he can lie to her face, try and offer her one last good line. "Having a distant aunt and second cousins show up feels almost embarrassing. You've shared so much with me and I've barely even got enough of myself to give back."

"What are you talking about? You're enough, Wentworth." Chrissie's hands find the sides of his face, and the furrow on her brow and genuine tenderness in her voice pierce through Robert's chest. "You're everything. As much as I wish Mum could be here, this isn't about family or what they think. It's about us."

Robert wants to say _I'm sorry_. Instead he stands up, walks them away from the chair and Chrissie gives him a sharp smile when the small of her back meets the desk behind her. Robert wraps his hands around Chrissie's wrists, knows that he should take the chance to kiss the questions off her lips. Instead he holds her gaze intently as he tells her, "Maybe we should elope." 

The idea startles a laugh out of her, Robert's heart lurches painfully at the sound of it. "Elope?" she asks, apparently unsure if Robert is joking. Right now, Robert thinks he's never been more serious about anything in this life. "Dad would kill me!" 

Robert feels himself shuddering, hopes it doesn't show. He wonders if Lawrence would go as far as to help Lachlan get away with Chrissie's murder, prays they never have to find out. She allows him to tangle his fingers with hers, closes her eyes briefly when Robert brushes his lips against her temple and whispers, "He already wants to kill me. Let's go, Chrissie. Why should we wait another two days when we could just do it now? I want you, only you. And we don't need my stupid cousins or your dad to validate us. All we need is each other."

It's as honest as anything he's ever told her and more; Chrissie offers him a warm smile and jokes, "It's a tempting offer," and Robert half-hopes she will say yes, wants nothing more. All he needs is for her to say yes, and he will figure out the rest. 

"I love you, Chrissie." _Let me spare you what's coming._ "Please."

"I love you too. So much." She shakes her head fondly, gives him a smile that says she's not taking him seriously, but Robert's sure his heart has stopped beating, waiting for Chrissie's response. Finally she says softly, "But we should stick with our plans." Chrissie's eyes leave Robert's as she lets go of his hands; and she doesn't see the way Robert's lungs suddenly deflate. Chrissie presses back against the desk, hugs her arms to her chest, and Robert takes her cue and takes a step back. She tightens her lips briefly and admits without looking at him, "I really want Rebecca to be here. She's missed so much already." 

He hates himself for feeling relieved, because it's a selfish thing to feel. Hates himself even more for feeling disappointed, because that's just plain stupid. What would he have done if she'd said yes? Turned their two weeks honeymoon in the Philippines into a month-long, at most two-months-long adventure through faraway countries to keep her away from the fallout; maybe give her a confession that would only quell Robert's own remorse. Instead he has this moment, and all he can offer Chrissie is a hesitant hand on her shoulder and a weak, "I thought our families didn't matter."

She shakes her head, looks down at her bare feet, finally gazes back at him, sad and somber when she says, "Oh, Wentworth, not to us, they don't. But I'm marrying someone I actually love, and I want to share that with my sister. I don't think I'm asking too much of her, am I?" She frowns, blinks fast to try and clear her watery eyes, asks Robert in a whisper, "Am I being selfish here?"

"No, of course not," he reassures her. She gives him a grateful, if unconvinced smile, but allows herself to be pulled into a loose hug, Robert's hands framing her shoulders even as Chrissie keeps her arms folded against her chest. If nothing else he wishes he could bring her sister back, make sure Chrissie won't have to deal with the aftermath alone. He has the thought that at least Robert's betrayal will be soon overshadowed by her own family's when Lachlan and Lawrence get exposed, but Chrissie speaks again before he has the time to feel guilty about it. 

"She said she'd be here, but she's been entirely unreachable for bloody weeks," she explains, sadness quickly giving way to reproach. "Off in Peru or something, I can't keep track anymore." Chrissie huffs. "I don't even know if I remember what she looks like. The only picture I have around is from when she was thirteen and she looks like she's dressed as Alvin the Chipmunk." 

Robert asks, "Really?" and lets out an undignified snort that makes Chrissie smile. 

"Really!" she says, and just like that the annoyance is gone and there's only fond nostalgia left in Chrissie's voice, her eyes drifting away from Robert as she wistfully adds, "It's ridiculous, you'd never guess it was her. Blonde bombshell now. Partying on yachts and going on spiritual retreats. Last time I saw her was at Glastonbury a few years ago, covered in mud. I took loads of pictures only for her to practically attack me and my mobile ended up waterlogged and broken in the mud, no hope for recovery."

He almost wishes he could have gotten a chance to meet Rebecca, to see the childish and carefree version of Chrissie that only seems to exist in the stories she tells about her sister. "Fond memory?" he asks.

"Very fond. I miss her." Chrissie looks out the window and into the rain, says more to herself than to Robert, "I miss how we used to be. Thick as thieves." Then she shakes her head ever so slightly, looks back up at Robert and finally unfolds her arms, settling her hands on his back and pressing close to Robert's chest. 

He hugs her as tightly as possible, kisses her forehead, whispers, "I'm sorry."

He's not talking about her sister, of course, but Chrissie hums, mumbles against his collarbone, "It's alright. Can't expect much from her these days." They hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, Chrissie steps back just enough to look at him with big honest eyes. "Anyway, it's all about us, isn't it?"

Before the steps coming down the hallway can burst their little bubble, Robert fervently promises, "Yes, it is, it's just you and me." He kisses her with the taste of the lie still on his tongue, licks deep and greedy into her mouth. At the very edge of Robert's attention someone reaches the office, stops, and a second later the door clicks closed.

* * *

###  **one day to the wedding**

Robert locks the office door, pockets the keys, and turns to face the cold night air. Most lights in the estate are already out and he makes his way across the still-wet grass mostly by feel, letting the downwards slope guide him towards the stables. There are no storm clouds and no moon in the sky and, though Robert's breath comes out in puffs of fog, tomorrow will without a doubt be a beautiful day. Just what Chrissie deserves.

At the thought of her, something tightens in Robert's throat. He looks over his shoulder, at the mostly dark windows on this side of the house. Chrissie is spending the night in the opposite wing of the building —overly fond of tradition in the way all rich people are, though Robert finds it a little endearing when it comes to her— which is rather convenient for him, no excuses needed to throw on a coat and sneak out for a midnight stroll. 

Even from a distance he can see the doors to the stables are open, but it's pitch black out and even blacker inside. He can't just call out, of course, so Robert quickens his pace and keeps his guard up, only a couple long strides from the doorway when Ross steps out of the dark.

"What are you doing here?" Robert asks, digs his heels into the soft ground. Ross seems a little more threatening than usual with black leather gloves and a black hoodie obscuring most of his face; and Robert scowls, strains to make out the edges of Ross' silhouette where they seem to blur into the dark. "Was told it'd be Aaron."

Robert scoffs and Robert can only guess at the expression on his face. The bloke takes just one, two, three more steps and stops at arms' length of Robert. Ross looks straight at him, but Robert can only see the disdainful twist of his mouth as he dryly explains, "It's _my_ tech. I'm here to pick it up."

Ross tilts his chin down, surely looking at the manila envelopes pressed to Robert's side, held under his right arm. Robert's shoulders tense, his fists tighten inside his coat pockets, but his voice is fairly calm when he replies, "And I've got more than just the wire to hand over. I need to talk to Aaron."

Ross looks up again, Robert can only guess that in the dark space under his hoodie the bloke's glaring at him. "So, you'd rather I leave, wasting my time, to go get Aaron, wasting _his_ time, just so you can get some peace of mind?" —Robert thinks _what?_ — "No way, mate." Ross sounds somewhere between bored and mocking, Robert can see a mean little curl at the edges of his mouth. The bloke moves his arm suddenly and Robert flinches, but he's only moving to pull off his hoodie and doesn't seem to notice Robert's reaction. Finally Robert can more or less see his face, finds annoyance all over it. It's clear in his voice too, Ross takes a step closer and gestures at Robert with one gloved hand as he says, "Just hand it over."

Robert takes a step backwards, grabs the envelopes with his left hand and grips them firmly against his chest. He probably should do as Ross says, has no real use for the evidence he stole from Lawrence's safe, and doesn't need a second-hand wire regardless of how good the sound and range are. It's just— Well, it's just that he expected to see Aaron, and that Ross pisses him off. It's not rational, and a part of him knows this, but it doesn't stop him from saying, "Yeah, I don't deal with henchmen." And, because he's already started anyway and Ross really, really gets on his nerves, he adds, "Especially not meathead tarts."

Ross lets out one short, mirthless bark of a laugh and gives Robert a grin and an incredulous head shake. "You know, I can't count how many times I've been called thick, but a _tart_." Ross chuckles. "That's a new one." In the pause that follows, Robert has to fight back the urge to retreat another step. "You know what's funny?" Robert shifts his balance, braces, but Ross just shrugs and says, "I'm only seeing one person, and I'm not playing away from him." Ross' face twists into a sneer. "Or running a game on him." 

Robert bristles at his pointed look; scrambles for an answer. "Well then, your boyfriend's the tart."

The laugh that escapes Ross is so loud Robert almost fears it will be heard from the house. When Ross looks at him, there's just the tiniest hint of pity on his face, but his voice is perfectly cruel. "Come on, mate, it's pathetic. You want him so bad, it makes you look like a bloody idiot."

Robert feels his blood boiling, finds himself taking a step forward when he should be going backwards, spits out without thinking, "I've already had him," and if Robert loses his kneecaps, at least the way Ross' face falls will have been worth it. 

Ross seems to stagger forward, words like a breath punched out of his chest when he asks, "You what?"

They're close enough now that Robert can reach out, place a patronising hand in Ross' shoulder. He can feel the smirk tugging up at the corners of his own mouth. "Yeah, let it sink in. Hope it doesn't hurt your little feelings, knowing I fucked him and he loved it." 

Ross scoffs and bats Robert's hand away, bites out, "What about it?" Ross manages to affect a good enough semblance of calm, but Robert can see anger filtering through the cracks. "Aaron likes sex, you're not special." Ross takes one step forward, Robert knows he should probably brace but doesn't want to cede any ground. "But me and Aaron, we have history." 

It lands as heavy as a blow to the gut. In the dark, Robert can only guess at the shape of Ross' snarl. He's right, they both know he's right. Aaron and Ross clearly have a past. Robert doesn't even have a future —just a soon-to-collapse grift, no crew, no plans. Still he manages to sound self-assured enough when he tells Ross, "Maybe he doesn't want history. Maybe he wants one electric connection." 

He thinks he sees Ross roll his eyes but they're too close now, no light in the space between them, Ross muttering close to Robert's face, "You've got no idea what he wants. You don't even know him." 

Robert wants to say _I know he wants me_ , but doesn't trust himself not to falter on the words. He won't give Ross the satisfaction, of course, hopes his disdainful once-over translates in the dark and laces his response with bile. "I know he doesn't want you. Not the way you want. He'll shag you, but he'll never love you, Ross." 

Ross' reaction is a full-body laugh, head thrown back, hand on his belly, too loud and too long to be fully natural; and then he leans forward, as if trying to regain his balance, and his hand lands on Robert's shoulder, a slap with a bit too much force behind it softened by Robert's heavy coat. Ross' fingers grip at his shoulder, a gloved thumb pressing down into his collarbone, and he gives Robert a wide smile. "I know you're trying to wind me up, but this is honestly hilarious. It's not like you can give him what he wants, if what he wants is you." Ross' hand clamps down painfully on Robert's shoulder and shakes him, and the bloke grins with all of his teeth before asking, "Aren't ya getting married to a woman tomorrow? Stop pretending, Wentworth. Sure, you slept with Aaron, but can you admit that you liked it?" A pause for effect, Ross leans further into Robert's space, bites out the next words right against his face, "With a man? Come on." 

Robert hates the condescension in Ross' voice, the hand on his shoulder keeping him in place. He tightens his grip on the manila envelopes against his chest, scowls at Ross. "I'm still straight," Robert tells him, and it sounds true enough, but the words keep coming, "Sometimes I fuck men," —less than sure, more than a bit rushed— "that doesn't change anything." 

He doesn't really see the smile on Ross' face but this close up, Robert can feel the hot puff of his laughter against his skin. "You keep telling yourself that," Ross mutters in the narrow space between them, and Robert tries to shrug the hand off his shoulder but it only makes Ross tighten his grip, pitch his voice even lower when he adds, "And keep telling yourself you didn't fall for Aaron in a week like the sad, desperate closet case you are." 

Robert's retort is out of his mouth before he can think twice about it, a mean and mocking, "Speaking from experience then?" and for the shortest moment, Robert wonders how he's gonna explain away a broken nose or a black eye. Fingers dig into his shoulder painfully but, whatever it is he expects Ross to do, it's not pull him in, grin against Robert's lips, kiss him with mouth and eyes open. The manila envelope crumples up noisily in Robert's hands, dry lips press against his, he tries to ask what the fuck is going on and Ross licks into his mouth. He may lose the plot for a moment there, but he was already gearing up for a fight, his body can only react, right? It would be so terribly easy to allow himself to close his eyes in the pitch black night.

And then Ross is biting painfully into his upper lip and pulling back, and there's a fist punching upwards into Robert's gut, a hot burst of laughter against his mouth before Ross takes a step back. Air pushes out of Robert's lungs, and he's vaguely aware that he's loosened his grip on the envelopes but it feels like his kidney has just been shoved straight into a rib and, when they are snatched from his grasp, he's almost relieved to be able to clutch at his abdomen with his now-free hands. 

He would surely keel over, bend forward and curl into himself, if Ross wasn't still right there, gloved hand clamping down where Robert's shoulder meets his neck, the thumb that now moves to press into Robert's throat a clear enough threat. Robert finds his eyes watery from pain when he looks at Ross' mean, crooked grin. "See? Weren't that hard," Ross tells him, holds the envelopes up for Robert to see. He tries to straighten up and reach for them, but Ross only needs to apply a little pressure for Robert to give in and drop his hands to his sides. "Thought so," Ross mutters, and in the dark his teeth are the clearest part of his face, smile like a dog toying with small prey. His hand on Robert's shoulder and neck still holds him firmly in place, Ross tilts his head to the side and his voice is low but ringing with amusement, "I'll tell Aaron you called him a tart, yeah? Think he'll still call ya?"

And with one last painful dig of his fingers into Robert's shoulder, he lets go. Ross steps backwards, shoves the envelopes under his arm, gives Robert a big mocking grin before he pulls the hoodie up and his face disappears from sight. Robert rubs his sore shoulder, watches Ross' back until he reaches the trees and is swallowed by the dark. He turns just in time to see the last still-lit window in Home Farm go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love when robert slutshames people, like, look at yourself baby!


	12. how long 'til i walk in the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he's being a little foolish, a little sentimental, well. He'll deal with the consequences of his actions when they catch up to him, and not a minute earlier than that. Robert tosses the tie on the driver's seat, pushes the button that opens the folding top, steps on the gas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **disclaimer:** no cars were harmed in the making of this chapter.

_lock the door  
_ _i shake, i promise every day to change_  
 _i cross out his name on the page_

— [ _On the Floor_ , Perfume Genius ](https://open.spotify.com/track/4rpyJ4FCTawHW4ItDlpoka?si=WkRiNWN6SGuSoX1xI7GUMw)

###  **two hours to the wedding**

Robert tried the comms less than an hour after Ross had left —he wanted, _needed_ to get ahead of whatever the bloke would tell Aaron— but to no avail. After calling out for Aaron, Liv, even Adam for a good ten minutes, he finally came to the conclusion that even vigilantes and teenage menaces have to sleep at some point, and went to bed himself. He didn't get much rest, the bed too big and too empty without Chrissie by his side, and was awake and thrumming with anxiety much earlier than he would have liked. 

He tried the comms as soon as he got up. He tried them after his coffee. Again after showering. Every time, the frequency returned nothing but silence, and this attempt is no different. 

It's still early, a bit more than two hours to go still, and the Whites are getting ready on the opposite wing of the house. Robert insisted that he would deal with the catering and take care of any last-minute arrangements; and took every chance to snap at the unfortunate service workers that crossed his path. He eventually got kicked out by the wedding planner, who insisted he should _relax, get ready, have a drink or three, please_ , and has been nursing a whiskey in his and Chrissie's room for a good while now. 

He put on the suit way too early because he didn't know what else to do. He's reviewed his exit plan uncountable times, anguished over his choices, felt the guilt clawing up at his insides. But he's already made his bed —stolen jewelry and art shipped off to his Liverpool storage unit, the information on two offshores already in his power, and tragically his car will remain here but he will steal himself something elegant and vintage in no time, once he's got his next identity up and running— and now he has no choice but to lay in it. He'll ditch Wentworth Taylor at Manila International Airport and disappear while Chrissie, beautiful beloved soon-to-be-broken-hearted Chrissie waits for her husband to return with their luggage. Robert shrugs on his dark blue suit jacket, looks at his reflection in the mirror, tries to find something true in the man looking back at him. 

"Aaron?" he calls into the empty room, and gets no answer. He takes out the earpiece, taps it anxiously, pushes it back into his ear canal, tries, "Liv? You there?" Nothing. He stares at his own tense, pale face on the other side of the vanity mirror and has to fight the urge to punch a fist through it. Instead he takes the earpiece out again, downs what's left at the bottom of his whiskey glass, haphazardly throws his tie around his neck, and turns on his heel. 

A very distressed wedding planner tries to stop him on his way out, apparently convinced that he's about to do a runner, but Robert assures her that he's just going to get Chrissie's gift and ignores all of her protests, almost losing his still undone tie on the way to his car. He finally tells her he will be back in less than an hour, and starts the engine with the woman still clinging to the open door, begging him not to be late. 

There is a gift, of course, but it's right here, hidden in his glove compartment: a diamond necklace that Robert nicked at the beginning of his career, when he still didn't know that some priceless items are indeed too hard to put a price to, and even harder to move when they've been acquired through illegal means. He could sell it, sure, but nobody will buy it whole for what the necklace could actually be worth, and taking it apart to move the diamonds individually would be a crime in Robert's eyes. And sure, giving it to Chrissie is a risk —she could turn it in as evidence or have it professionally assessed, recognize it for what it is and connect him to the theft, but he'll have a whole new identity by then. And if he's being a little foolish, a little sentimental, well. He'll deal with the consequences of his actions when they catch up to him, and not a minute earlier than that. Robert tosses the tie on the driver's seat, pushes the button that opens the folding top, steps on the gas. 

The gate is closed when he gets to the scrapyard, and he has to get out of the car to read the cardboard sign stuck with way too much tape to the fence. Big bold black marker letters inform potential customers that Holey Scrap will be back in business next week; Robert thinks he's going to be sick. At the risk of ruining his wedding suit, he jumps the gate —doesn't know what he's expecting to achieve, really, but getting back in his car and leaving doesn't even cross his mind. In twenty four hours he'll be on a flight to the Philippines and, if he doesn't get to talk to Aaron now— The thought alone has him struggling to breathe, rattling at the portacabin door frantically, banging on it when it refuses to give. 

Aaron's voice —not the engine coming to a stop outside, not the screech of the gate opening, not the steps on still-muddy ground, but Aaron's voice— snaps him out of it, a rushed, "Woah, woah, Jacob, what's going on?"

He turns to find Aaron hurrying towards him, brow furrowed and palms held up, slowing down when Robert all but runs the few steps that separate them. The words burst out of Robert's mouth before he has a chance to regret them, a panicked, "I thought you were gone," as his hands grab at Aaron's shoulders, his neck, his face. He kisses Aaron so he won't be able to speak anymore; spills every word he can't or shouldn't say into his mouth. 

Aaron holds onto his arms, hands clutching into fists around the sleeves of his wedding suit, but Robert doesn't care, couldn't care. His awareness narrows to the places where they meet —Aaron's lips opening under his, the scrape of teeth against his tongue, a low warm hum into his mouth that has Robert's entire body thrumming with want. Only Aaron's hot breath against his lips, Aaron's scruff scratching Robert's face, _AaronAaronAaron_ —and then Aaron pulling back, suddenly out of reach, hands pushing Robert's away, big sky-blue eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow. "It's your wedding day."

Robert nods absently, looks at Aaron's spit-shiny lips, mumbles, "I know," before he moves to kiss him again. But Aaron turns his head, bats his hands away, warns him off with a low, 

"Jacob—"

"Robert," he corrects without thinking, and he doesn't even regret it, he doesn't, even when Aaron lets out a mirthless chuckle and raises his eyebrows, says more to himself than to him,

"Of course it is." Aaron rolls his eyes, and Robert wants to kiss the annoyance off his face. "Kinda figured, if I'm honest."

"Please, Aaron," he whispers, not sure of what he's asking for. 

Aaron's reply is a dry, "Robert?"

And Robert tries to bite back the words, he really does, but they pour out of him against his will as he reaches for Aaron again. "I thought you'd left," he says, and Aaron doesn't shrug off his touch this time, allows Robert's hands to cup his neck even though the frown on his face has yet to go away. "Without even saying goodbye," he adds, and the minute break in his voice isn't intentional. 

Aaron snorts —it's tinged with derision but it washes most of the frown away, and Aaron's hands come to rest on his waist, a soft tightening of fingers on Robert's sides, a barely-there tug to pull him in. "We ain't even ruined Lawrence yet," Aaron tells him, something like reassurance in his voice, and Robert goes to take the opening, tilts his head and moves to catch Aaron's mouth in his but his kiss lands at the corner of a mocking grin. He adds, "No need to sulk," and Robert recoils as fast as if Aaron's skin had caught fire. 

He steps back, scowls, shoves his hands into his pockets as he tries to protest, "I'm not sulking," and Aaron's bright amusement wounds his pride but that doesn't make Robert want him any less. 

Aaron places a hand on his shoulder, gives him a condescending little pat before he walks past him. "You're sulking," he calls without looking back, a clinking of keys accompanying his words as he steps up to the portacabin. Robert thinks Aaron's got to be doing it on purpose, making Robert follow after him to show that he can —it's what Robert would do, anyway— but he still turns around and walks in Aaron's steps. He has the one card up his sleeve, trails after Aaron into the portacabin as he tries to clear the frown off his brow.

"Nothing to sulk about," Robert says. His knuckles are white around the door handle as he closes the portacabin door, but his voice is steady on the lie. He turns just in time to see Aaron pulling a fairly small envelope from his back pocket and, while Aaron drops whatever that is inside the top drawer of the filing cabinet, Robert fixes a well-practiced smile to the corners of his mouth. He meets Aaron's eyes with a guileless look and a, "You're here, aren't ya?" when he turns. 

Robert can see the way Aaron works his jaw, his face finally settling into something that's not quite a frown. "So are you," Aaron says, and pushes the drawer shut with his elbow before he asks —eyebrows raising a little, chin tilting up— "What's that about?"

"Comm wasn't working." Robert takes a hesitant step forward, offers up his empty hands and his very best, broadest, most wide-eyed smile; uses up his every last ounce of charm. "Wanted to see you."

Aaron scoffs, asks, "Before you run off and get married?" but there's no bite behind it and, even before Aaron takes the first step, Robert can see the way his shoulders shift forward. He thinks, _see?_ Nobody's impossible to read, not even Aaron —not to him. 

"Look, Aaron—" he starts, already reaching for Aaron again when they meet in the middle, but Aaron's hands are faster, startle him with an almost-playful pull at the lapels of Robert's suit jacket. He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to remember what he was going to say, but the words have completely escaped his mind. It's him tipping forward now, thumbs brushing at the edges of Aaron's smile, heart like a sledgehammer against the inside of his rib cage. What was even his intention coming here? For the life of him, Robert cannot remember "I love her," he says, stalling, trying to get his heart rate to slow down. 

Aaron mutters, "Yeah, if you say so," and tugs him in, patently bored with this conversation —Robert is sure most other people wouldn't notice the tightening of his jaw, the hint of annoyance when he talks. 

Words try to push their way out even as Robert allows Aaron to pull him down, he breathes out a, "But I—" and catches himself almost immediately, takes a shallow breath in and breathes the rest of the thought out into Aaron's kiss. His fingers grasping desperately at Aaron's face, his body already pressing forward, the urgent push of his tongue into Aaron's mouth all speak to Robert's greed. 

He still half expects Aaron to slip his grasp and, when he pushes softly against Robert's chest, Robert immediately moves to step back. But the hands at his lapels pull him back, a toothy smile presses briefly against his lips before Aaron deepens the kiss, licks at the roof of his mouth. Robert finds himself being walked backwards, Aaron's mouth and hands steering his movements until the filing cabinet rattles against his back. Aaron loosens his grip on Robert's lapels, satin smoothing back into shape as his fingers push the jacket away and find the vest below, and Aaron breathes out a huff into his mouth. Robert lets go of his face to reach for the buttons himself, feels Aaron's teeth scraping against his bottom lip when he smiles, and he mumbles, "Let me," so Aaron does. 

Their kiss drags on a moment longer, Aaron's knuckles brush against Robert's before he takes a step back, unzips his windbreaker, and gives Robert a small, crooked smile as he shrugs it off and drops it with absolute disregard. The windbreaker hasn't even hit the floor when Aaron's hands find Robert's belt buckle, his mouth the tender skin below Robert's ear —brusque, sharp in a way that makes the blood in Robert's veins boil. The belt lands near Aaron's windbreaker with a loud rattle, Aaron's hands pull Robert's shirt free from his waistband and he presses a wet, hot kiss to the underside of his jaw, and Robert's usually steady hands struggle to get the last few buttons undone. 

"Reckon I owe ya," Aaron mutters, and pushes Robert's now-undone shirt open to scrape short nails across his ribs, moves to lick at the hollow between his collarbones. Robert feels light-headed, takes a second too long to process the words and, when he does, he stops mid-taking off his jacket, one arm already free when he wraps his hands around Aaron's biceps and breaks away from the kiss. 

"Aaron," he starts, and Aaron's gaze meets his briefly but it's fleeting, it lingers on Robert's mouth for just a moment before he looks down, Aaron's fingers rushing to touch every spot of bare skin his eyes can find. Robert takes a deep breath, swears he can feel Aaron's blazing touch all the way through his rib cage and burning up his lungs. Then Aaron's hands leave his chest to undo his trousers, and Robert remembers what he was trying to say. His own hands leave Aaron's upper arms, brush across the soft cotton of his green shirt before grabbing at his wrists instead, forcing them both to a stop. Aaron looks up with a question in his eye, doesn't actually need to ask —Robert hopes he can come off as honest, and briefly wonders if that isn't in itself some sort of performance. "Aaron, you don't owe me anything."

If even a fraction of the rumors were true, Cain Dingle would have kneecapped him in that barn over a week ago, if not fed him to the pigs. And yet, for the few threats Aaron's made and the many Ross has hurled, when he turned to leave five days ago, Aaron let him. No, not quite. Leaving Robert to be crushed by his own hubris would have been more than kind on Aaron's part. He would have gone back to Chrissie's loving arms, to his castle of cards; and he would have been lucky if it was just the local police digging him out from under the rubble when the whole thing came crashing down. 

Five days and three aliases ago, a dozen steps from where they stand now, Aaron had no reason to trust him and plenty to want rid of him, but he still called after him, still told him the truth, still gave him a heads up and a way to stay in touch. _He trusts you, for some reason_ , Liv said. Aaron pushes against his grasp, and Robert lets go of his wrists, expecting him to step back, absolutely certain that Aaron has finally realized that Robert can't be trusted, that Robert's not like him —that Robert's hungry and hollow, can't be house-trained, can't be made whole. But instead Aaron tugs at the jacket sleeve that's still hanging off Robert's left shoulder and looks him dead in the eye, his voice steady when he says, "I know." Robert has never felt hunger like he does now. 

With Aaron's hands slowing rather than hurrying the process, he gets himself out of his jacket, and tosses it in the desk's general direction without looking away from Aaron's searching, sharp blue eyes. Robert finds himself dreading what Aaron's gaze may find —and it finds something alright, but it can't be that bad, because Robert can see Aaron's eyes crinkling at the corners, the hint of a smile in the way his lips part. He presses splayed fingers over Robert's stuttering heart, pushes him against the cabinet while his other hand grabs him by the back of the head and pulls him in for a kiss that's all bite. 

Robert grabs at Aaron's waist, at the firm muscle of his lower back, digs his fingers into soft fabric and pulls him closer to himself as Aaron tugs at his lip with his teeth, pushes his thigh between Robert's and licks at the sensitive skin under his tongue. He has a mind to change the pace of their kiss and press Aaron up against a wall, but Aaron pulls softly at the hair on his nape to change the angle of their kiss and Robert forgets about it entirely, melts into his mouth. Aaron's hand under his shirt must be burning a pattern on the expanse of Robert's back, the frantic grind of their bodies against each other pushes every last coherent thought out of his mind. 

Kissing Aaron is something that comes to him as easy as lying does, easier even. As natural as breathing, his body responding to Aaron's cues without a moment's hesitation. His brain takes a little longer to catch up, and he's already following Aaron's steps and the push-pull of his hands when he realizes that they are moving with intention. The plastic edge of a chair digs into the back of his knees —it doesn't really register until Aaron breaks the kiss, meets Robert's eyes as his hands find Robert's waistband. 

Robert answers before Aaron's even voiced the question —"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want."— and grabs at the back of Aaron's head, at the side of his neck, pulls him back in before he can say anything more. In the moment before their lips meet he sees the spark in Aaron's eyes, and then Aaron is kissing him with searing intent, undoing his trousers with deft fingers, pushing Robert back.

The cheap plastic chair doesn't give when he all but drops on it, and that is a small miracle all on its own, but it's the sight of Aaron that has Robert feeling like the luckiest man alive —knees on dusty floor, fitting easily in the vee of his thighs, sitting back on his calves to look Robert up and down with a barely-there smile and an intensity that makes Robert feel like his skin is catching fire. Aaron's calloused hands under his shirt, Aaron looking up at him through dark eyelashes, Aaron pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the tender place right above Robert's hipbone. 

Aaron digs his fingers into Robert's thighs, his teeth on the patch of skin just above the elastic of Robert's boxers —he's not even touched his dick and Robert's already squirming in his underwear, already closing his eyes, already breathing in short shallow gasps— and then Aaron's hands slide up his thighs, tug at Robert's undone trousers to get them out of the way, grab at the elastic waistband of his boxers, and stop. Robert opens his eyes to Aaron's self-satisfied smile, and groans. "Aaron—" But the smile only broadens, his thumbs trace the lines of Robert's hips. "Fuck, Aaron, please." 

Lucky for him, it doesn't take more than that for Aaron to give, the want hiding behind his smile filtering like light through the cracks. Aaron pulls his boxers down with sharp, impatient movements, and Robert feels lightheaded just considering the possibility that Aaron could want Robert even half as much as Robert wants him. He thinks about the priceless diamond necklace too beautiful to take apart, about the stolen car and the stolen identity he'll soon leave behind, and when Aaron's hand wraps loosely around his dick he doesn't think anymore. He just wants, wants, wants. Wants the calluses on Aaron's hands, the beard scratching at his belly, the bright blue eyes that meet Robert's and send a shiver up his spine. Aaron strokes him slowly, holds Robert's gaze as he leans the last inch forward, and Robert is waiting for it but still feels he might just burst out of his own skin when Aaron's hot breath grazes his hard-on. Aaron's hand twists on the up stroke, the tip of his tongue teases at the crown of his dick, and Robert's knuckles go white around the edges of the chair. 

He probably starts talking around the same time his eyelids fall shut, but the roar of his own blood drowns out every other sound, and he can't tell where his thoughts end and his words begin. Aaron traces the length of him with his tongue, then goes back to stroking him slow and on the right side of too tight, and in his mind Robert pleads and prays and makes impossible promises, but most of what comes out of his mouth is just, " _Please, Aaron, Aaron, AaronAaronAaron_ —" until Aaron finally wraps hot wet lips around his erection and sucks, and for a moment Robert fully forgets how to make words out of sounds. 

He can't last long, guesses it the second the head of his dick presses against the roof of Aaron's mouth, knows it for sure when Aaron tugs his boxers down and pulls off to suck at his balls instead —the back of his head bangs against the wall behind him but the pain is dull, less than an echo compared to the overwhelming sensation of Aaron's mouth and hand. Robert opens his eyes, struggles to focus his vision, manages it just in time to get a perfect picture of Aaron's spit-shiny lips sliding down his dick, the hand that was just pushing off Robert's clothes now rubbing at the obvious line of Aaron's hard-on over his jeans. Aaron groans around his dick, and it rattles every last one of Robert's bones. 

His hands find Aaron's face, his hair, his neck, finally dig into his shoulders and the soft cotton of Aaron's shirt —not pushing or pulling, but holding on. Aaron's short nails scratching down his stomach send a shiver up Robert's spine, and he tries and fails to string a sentence together. "Aaron, I—" _I want, I want, I want_. "Aaron." His voice breaks. Aaron relaxes his tongue and jaw, swallows around him, and the tight, smooth heat at the back of his throat is enough to do Robert in. He comes like he's been punched in the gut, gasping and curling into himself, burying his fingers into Aaron's shoulders. Aaron presses his tongue against the underside of his softening dick as he pulls off and Robert whimpers, paws at Aaron's neck and jaw to pull him up for a clumsy kiss —Aaron's hand braced on Robert's thigh, jeans gathering dirt from the portacabin floor; plastic chair skidding dangerously on the floor when Robert drops his weight forward and catches Aaron's mouth. 

They meet like the tide meets the sand, Aaron's tongue searching and bitter, hungry; Robert only half-coherent and still out of breath. He allows the kiss to roll over him like a wave, and it washes everything else away. Here, with Aaron's hand reaching to grab him by the back of the neck, with Aaron's teeth scraping the line of his jaw, Robert could swear he's never wanted, never needed anything and anyone else. The tide recedes, Robert snaps back into himself.

He pulls Aaron up with him in a blind scramble for balance —Aaron's tongue at his throat, Robert's hands raking through Aaron's beard— but they manage to get to their feet without breaking apart, and Robert buries his fingers in Aaron's hair, releases a few curls loose from the grasp of his hair gel, and pulls Aaron's head back to suck at his reddened bottom lip. Robert lets go of Aaron's hair but not of his mouth —hisses into their kiss when he tucks himself back into his underwear and more or less pulls his trousers up— and they clash for a moment, Aaron digging his nails into Robert's neck, Robert biting at Aaron's lips in a way he knows it's bound to hurt. 

Then Robert's hand finds Aaron's wrist, and he pleads, "Let me," against Aaron's mouth, and Aaron does. Aaron's jeans are undone but still hang around his hips, and when Robert grabs his wrist Aaron's hand stutters over his still-clothed erection before coming to a stop. There's a wet patch of precome on his grey boxers, and Robert can't get his hands on Aaron soon enough but, rather than grab his crotch, Robert pulls at Aaron's waist, kisses the corner of his mouth and again whispers, "Let me." Aaron stops, takes a step back and looks up to find Robert's eyes. Under the unbearable weight of his gaze, the words come out a question —"Let me?"— and Aaron nods.

This time, when Robert pulls at his waist, Aaron follows the movement, rolls his eyes at him as he turns but allows Robert to press their bodies together —Aaron's back to Robert's chest, Robert's mouth on the back of his neck. They stumble the three steps to the desk like this, one hand pressed to Aaron's sternum under his shirt and the other stroking him over his boxers, Robert sucking a mark right behind Aaron's ear; and he's not even sure if, "I dreamt I had you bent over that bench, in the barn, y'know," is just a thought or something he actually says. Aaron pushes back against him, but that could very well be simply the fact that Robert's finally gotten his hand into his underwear and wrapped nimble fingers around his hard-on. 

The desk groans, seems to give just a little when Aaron tips forward and falls onto his elbows and forearms like dead weight, and Robert follows, every inch of his chest pressed to Aaron's back. Aaron is already beyond wound-up, every slow tight stroke around his dick stealing another gasp from his mouth, and Robert can feel every minute twitch and stutter of Aaron's hips against his groin, swears the pounding of Aaron's heart is echoing inside his own rib cage. He traces the jagged edge of a scar on Aaron's abdomen with the tips of his fingers, bites into the tight muscle where Aaron's neck meets his shoulder, finally quickens the pace of his movements.

Robert's hand under his shirt finds Aaron's nipple, thumbs and tugs at it, has Aaron thrusting into his fist. It's not even a minute after that, a quick escalation into fast, tight strokes —then a playful twist of Aaron's hard nipple, and Robert's teeth tugging at his earlobe— and Aaron's dick twitches in his grasp, he comes with a full-body shiver and a low guttural groan that Robert feels deep in his bones. 

"Sorry for this," Robert mumbles into Aaron's neck, not sounding sorry at all, as he pulls his hand out of Aaron's boxers and wipes his stained fingers against whatever dry patch of fabric he can find —he does at least have the decency of zipping Aaron's jeans up afterwards— but Aaron doesn't complain, doesn't even seem to mind much. He lets Robert hug him around the waist and pull them both up to a standing position, and drops his weight back against Robert's chest —warm and heavy and fitting perfectly in Robert's arms. 

Robert pushes forward without thinking, finds himself half-hard against the curve of Aaron's ass and muffles a groan against his flushed neck, presses clumsy kisses to Aaron's jawline that hardly amount to more than rubbing his face against his beard. God, he wants to drag Aaron back to his car and work him up until Robert can actually afford to shag his brains out, wants to rip his wedding suit off and use it as a makeshift bed to drag Aaron down to the floor, wants to drive them both back to that barn for a long languid leisurely fuck before they skip town. Aaron turns his head, catches Robert's mouth in his, and Robert thinks that actually, the necklace in his glove box could easily make him a million if he sold it for pieces, half that for the central stone without a doubt. He could be fucking Aaron in a plane restroom on their way to Ibiza in no time. 

Then he realizes that he's being _insane_ , that he can't just blow off his wedding and go on the lam —that even if he offered, Aaron couldn't possibly bite. Unlike Robert, Aaron is clearly a pack animal. Maybe he breaks away from their kiss too suddenly, maybe it's the startled motion that has him stumbling back. Aaron turns to him with a frown, catches his balance on the edge of the desk and blinks three times in rapid succession as if trying to gather himself, finally looks up at Robert with clear inquisitive eyes. "You alright?"

No, he thinks, he's going insane. He busies himself buttoning up his trousers, looks intently at his hands as he fixes his shirt and lies instead, "Yeah, you?" Aaron doesn't reply. After one, three, five seconds Robert looks up, finds Aaron looking at him with eyebrows raised and a faint smile on his mouth. 

If he were a bit less skeptical, Robert would have to believe that Aaron can read his mind. But no, of course he can't. He can't. He's just good at reading people —at reading Robert, and good enough that he knew that Robert wanted him even before Robert himself realized it. Now he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, some determination as to what Robert's defensive stance and reddening face mean. And he can't be that far from the truth, because his smile widens, rapidly shifting from amused to smug. He pushes off the desk, takes one step forward and one of his beat-up boots kicks at the point of Robert's shoes. Robert is about to tell him to stop being a shit when Aaron finally says, "Yeah, good," and another wave of irrational scenarios floods Robert's mind.

"What if…" Robert finds himself saying, bites his tongue before he can utter another word. Then he thinks, actually, fuck it, and reaches to grab at Aaron's waist, says, "I wanted to see you again?"

Robert moves in to kiss him, but Aaron laughs and turns his big mocking grin away from Robert's mouth, and there's an edge to the amusement in his voice when he asks, "After you're married?"

He speaks against Aaron's jawline, "Me and Chrissie…" —he has the vague idea that maybe rubbing his face against Aaron's won't help him get himself together, kisses Aaron's mouth briefly before he finally meets his eyes— "It's not gonna last. I'll finish the job and I'll leave. It's gonna end, but this doesn't have to."

Aaron snorts, but he also places a hand on Robert's arm, and Robert is torn between pulling Aaron in or taking a step back. "Robert," Aaron starts, and shakes his head like he's about to explain something very simple to a not-very-smart child. "We've had sex twice. We're hardly picking out flower arrangements."

Robert makes a conscious effort not to show it, but that hurts his pride. The voice of his old partner Ellie tells him _you never grovel or beg to a mark_. He ignores it, offers Aaron his most charming smile before he prompts, "But?"

Aaron rolls his eyes, but there's a smile on his face when he finally concedes, "But I've been thinking." His gaze wanders away from Robert's face and he trails off, digs his fingers into Robert's bicep. 

"And?" Robert insists, already impatient, unable to look away from Aaron's mouth. He could be sucking on Aaron's tongue at this very moment, if Aaron could just finish the damn thought. Aaron looks up at him, but doesn't give the answer Robert was waiting for. 

"You're on your own. I don't know how you've done it, but you're good." Unexpected, but flattering enough. Except apparently, Aaron isn't done. "Better actor than most of us. I mean, Ross has his moments," he says, and Robert scoffs at the name. 

"I doubt it."

"Alright, don't be jealous," Aaron gives him a stern glare, adds, "I'm trying to give you a compliment here."

"Of course." He wants to ask where, exactly, this is going. "Please continue."

"Your talents would be an asset. If you fancy starting over as a good guy, there's a place for you on our crew."

It takes him a moment to realize that Aaron isn't winding him up, a whole seven seconds and it washes over him like cold ocean water, it makes Aaron's proximity almost impossible to withstand. He gets his hands off Aaron's waist, takes a step back. "Are you serious?" he asks, because he can't be. Couldn't be.

But Aaron nods. "I know you and Ross are like oil and water, but Liv reckons she likes ya. Which is a pretty big feat, considering she doesn't like anyone. She hates people more than Ross actually, and he's determined to get on everyone's bad side."

Ross' name puts a scowl on Robert's face, and he moves to snatch his jacket off the desk so he doesn't have to look Aaron in the eye when he grumbles, "You seem to like him."

"I've known him for a long time," Aaron says, noncommittal. "I put up with him."

Robert knows that this doesn't concern him at all, but still points out, "Aaron, you're sleeping with him," puts on his suit jacket and looks at Aaron just in time to see him shrug. 

"We were both having a proper bad go of it when we met; and neither of us had anyone else. But we understood each other. We still do. It's hard to find someone like that."

And it shouldn't bother him, really. It's not any of his business. But the reproach in his voice is genuine when he says, "He's in love with you." And maybe he gets a kick out of seeing Aaron guilty and fidgeting and unable to meet his eye. It can't be Robert squirming under _his_ gaze every goddamn time. Still, he doesn't mean for his words to come off so venomous when he tells Aaron, sneering, "And you think _I'm_ the bad guy."

Aaron scoffs, asks, "You what?"

He has the fleeting notion that this is no longer —was never— about Ross, but can't get a hold on it, so Robert clings to the anger instead. "You know he's not seeing anyone else, right? Even though he knows you sleep with other people, and he knows you slept with me."

Aaron tries to play it off with a nonchalant, "Yeah, and?" —it _infuriates_ Robert. 

He's already decided to go down this road, Robert thinks, and chooses to stick to the bit, because talking about Ross is much easier than talking about them. If there's even a _them_ to talk about. "The idiot kissed me yesterday, obviously trying to make you jealous."

Robert doesn't like Aaron's snort, despises him for his response. "And did ya like it? Another bloke?"

"No!"

"Oh, why?" Aaron's jaw tightens, his next words drip with sarcasm— "'Cause you're straight?" 

This is stupid, Robert thinks, he needs to get out of here. He picks up his belt off the floor, but he can't just allow Aaron to have the last word. "Because he wasn't you!" he says, and immediately wishes he'd said nothing at all.

Aaron barks out a mean, dismissive laugh, but Robert can tell he's playing it up, trying to hide whatever his real reaction is. When Aaron spits out a sharp, "Yeah, or Chrissie, right?" —Robert thinks he understands. There's still time to change the course, he only has to kiss the scowl off Aaron's face to prevent the car crash that's about to happen.

"Shut up, Aaron," he says instead, and makes a point of holding Aaron's gaze while he puts his belt back on. "You've clearly been stringing him along for _years_. You want me to be another one just like him, following you around like some idiot dog." Aaron scowls, Robert sneers at him. "Probably got Adam at your beck and call too 'n'all." 

He regrets those words the moment that they are out, but Aaron seems to catch onto the implication, scoffs at him. "Oh, you reckon you'll fall in love with me? Come on. You can't even admit you're gay."

"Oh, fuck you, Aaron," he bites back, because he fears if he says _no_ he'll falter on the lie. But Robert is being perfectly honest when he adds, "I'm not gay. I wouldn't be marrying Chrissie if I didn't want her."

"But you _have_ to have your cake and eat it too, eh?" Aaron asks, mouth twisted in a mean snarl, and Robert thinks _yes_. He's first and foremost someone who gets what he wants. And fuck, he wants. He wants, and he wants, and he wants, but he can't tell Aaron just how badly, just how much. No, Aaron can never know that. He can have his name, he can have his mark, but he won't take that. 

"I just wanted to know if we could see each other again every once in a while, before I have to break the heart of the woman I love. Forgive me for wanting a little comfort."

Robert turns to the door, but his dramatic exit is interrupted by Aaron's loud, angry words —"You're tapped, you are."— and Robert can see that there's as much as there is anger in Aaron's scowl. 

"Yeah, look who's talking," he spits back, and walks out of the portacabin knowing that Aaron will follow. And he relishes being right, even if he hates every word that comes out of Aaron's mouth.

"You're a criminal, for Christ's sake, but you've fallen in love with your mark, then slept with a man, and you're refusing to admit you even like men!" Aaron calls at his back, but that doesn't stop Robert's stride. He goes right ahead until Aaron grabs him by the shoulder, forces him to turn on his heel. Aaron's eyes are bright with fury. "Mate, there's no one around here who cares. You've got no one, Robert. It's obvious enough. So, what are you so afraid of? Who are you so afraid will find out what you really are?"

"You don't know anything about me," Robert spits out, and shrugs Aaron's hand off his shoulder. He can see Aaron grinding his teeth, making a conscious effort to relax his jaw before he talks again, now low and even but dripping with spite.

"I offered you security and a clear conscience, but you'd rather wallow in guilt and self-pity all your life." Aaron's hands are fists at his sides. "Get over yourself."

"No, _you_ get over yourself. You think you're so much better than me, with your vigilante justice rubbish?" Robert can see Aaron about to protest, hurries to get in the way of it. "Ruin Lachlan and Lawrence, but it'll pull the rug out from under Chrissie too. She's done nothing wrong."

"You told us to leave her out of it, and we will," Aaron tells him, sounds and looks offended by the notion that he wouldn't stick to his word, and Robert scoffs.

"Oh, because it's that easy, is it?" —he turns on his heel, starts walking and he's not so sure Aaron will follow this time, listens out for his steps on the packed dirt before he speaks. "This is her family, Aaron, and she is fiercely loyal. Whatever happens, she goes down with them." He could leave it there, but he won't. He's never known when to leave things alone. He reaches his car, parked at the gate, and turns around to face Aaron's frown. "You should understand, your family's got enough blood on their hands."

Aaron stops close enough to touch, the line from fists to shoulders one tense charged wire, and pushes the words through his teeth when he replies, "You don't know anything about my family," the warning clear in his voice.

"Please." Robert doesn't even dignify that with an eye roll. "I was a car thief in Leeds for years, I know enough." He gives Aaron a second, while he gathers every last bit of spite and disdain to go with his words. "You think you're some kind of hero, but you're not. Just like Cain, right? A thug, a killer. The rumours can't all be lies, can they?"

Aaron's step forward is a threat, his voice a low growl, "Wouldn't you like to know?" Much like it did that day at the barn, the rage simmering under Aaron's skin makes his stomach drop. Out of all of Robert's stupid ideas, this could very well be his worst. 

"Yeah, tell me, Aaron, come on." He plays up the accusation, can tell that he's poking at a sore spot. "What've you got to atone for?"

He sees Aaron bristling with fury, all of his body gearing up to throw a punch; and sees the moment that Aaron catches himself, the anger simmering down. Not gone, not by a long shot, but contained, under control. Aaron's next words are calculated, cold. "A lot less than you've got, I bet." He looks first at Robert and then at his Porsche, and his mouth twists in a disdainful grimace. "You're gonna make your happy life up on the hill last for as long as you can, I'm guessing. Until the next bloke comes along, but I doubt he'll be quite as understanding as me." Aaron clicks his tongue, lets out an obviously forced laugh. "And y'know, it's funny, because your wife would probably take the gay cheat revelation better than the criminal one. Don't matter either way. Your plans will still blow up in your face."

"You don't have any real threats," Robert argues, tries to bluff anyway, "I know who you are and I've got plenty of contacts. I can ruin you."

Aaron huffs, raises his eyebrows at him, asks, "All on your own?" and Robert decides he's sick of him. So he turns to his car, sees his tie still on the driver's seat, opens the door. At his back, Aaron isn't done. "Sure, you've got _contacts_ , but you ain't got a crew. What about friends?" Robert slams the door shut, which doesn't make much of a difference with the top down, and shoves his keys in the ignition just as Aaron's hands wrap on the edge of the driver's door. Robert turns to meet his gaze and Aaron leans forward to speak close to his face, intimate and sour. "You say you love Chrissie, but she doesn't even know who you are, Robert. Or Jacob. Rory? Wentworth? Do _you_ even know who you are?" Robert doesn't reply, looks away from Aaron and finally turns the key in the ignition. "Yeah, I thought so." Aaron scoffs, pushes off the car. Before the engine's even started, a muddy boot kicks a crater in the door, and Robert takes the coward's way out, steps on the gas. The engine is not loud enough to drown Aaron's furious tirade, though, "But go on, you go get married and play happy hetero family before you make your wife's world crash down around her!" The car is as smooth on the reverse, but doesn't accelerate fast enough to prevent Aaron from kicking a couple more bumps on the side. Robert's still in hearing range, and throwing range as well, when Aaron picks up what looks like a piece of a broken tile from the ground and tosses it, calls out in a strained voice, "Have a nice fucking life!"

The bit of porcelain tile is not big enough to smash through the windshield, but it leaves a mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life won this week and i didn't make time to reply to your lovely comments, so here's a belated thanks, y'all! ❤️


	13. i've preemptively blocked all the exits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He reads out the last week like a play, reviews every line that's led him to this rushed, unsatisfying third act. This was meant to be the beginning. It would have been, if Aaron hadn't showed up. It's _his_ fault, of course it's _Aaron's_ fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 13: ross barton drops a sick beat.

_i will never die, i will never die,  
_ _i will never die, i will never die,  
_ _i will never die, i will never die_

— [ _Cop Car_ , Mitski ](https://open.spotify.com/track/7DLCgotDOZZyiW4cuL1sgn?si=zzQ-9inRSKuW0UrN67DEkw)

###  **the wedding party**

"I got you something," he whispers into Chrissie's ear as soon as they sit down, but her radiant smile doesn't bring the satisfaction that he's used to and he's expecting. _This was supposed to be_ my _moment_ , Robert thinks. _My wife, my mark, my money, mine, mine, mine_. And it would have been, if only Aaron hadn't shown up. The mere thought of him floods Robert's mouth with the taste of bile. 

He studiously digs the black velvet case from his jacket's inner pocket, does his very best to get his expression in check. When Robert finally meets Chrissie's gaze, his smile is set firmly in place. And he doesn't even have to force it that much —she's a vision in all white, the stones embroidered to her bustier almost dull compared to the joyful sparkle in her eye. If he remembered how to, seeing her would make him cry. 

"Oh, Wentworth," she coos, round elegant nails undoing the case's clasp, and when she sees the necklace she stops, gasps. She has the same taste for beauty as Robert, her words breathless and awed as she traces the central stone with her index— "It's beautiful." 

Robert vividly remembers thinking with his hands under Aaron's shirt and Aaron's mouth against his mouth that he could easily make a million on it; thinks if Aaron wasn't a self-righteous arsehole they could be landing in Spain right now. In his mind a voice that sounds like his sister's points out that he never asked, he pushes the thought away. "Do you want to put it on?" 

Chrissie laughs a short raspy laughter, closes the case and looks at Wentworth with an amused glint in her eyes. She shakes her head softly as she says, "It'll clash," and it's true, of course it's true. Chrissie's dress is opulent and heavily embroidered, the necklace is an angular and intricate piece of jewelry best displayed against a simple backdrop —not that even that central stone could steal Chrissie's spotlight. Still, Robert's confidence wavers, his smile falls. 

"You don't like it?" 

"No, darling, I love it." She puts the case down on the table, and picks up a handful of gossamer-soft fabric to turn in her chair without getting tangled up in her dress. Chrissie's ankle presses against Robert's calf under the table, and she gives him that conspiratorial smile of hers as she says, "I'll wear it on our way to the honeymoon." 

He feels off-kilter and nauseous, still manages to affect a smile. Chrissie is sharp but not enough to read him, not enough to see past his cotillon cheer. "And when we get to the hotel…" Robert mumbles, leaning close, and she purses her lips. 

"I'll wear only this."

"Pity I can't draw."

Her low laughter would usually warm him all over, now it barely manages to thaw away a few layers of the ice-cold anxiety that weighs him down like a stone. He catches her mouth in a kiss that tries to be soft, but soon becomes deep and biting, both of them hungry but not for the same reasons, not for the same things. It's quite heated, definitely not wedding-party appropriate —one of the teenagers sitting with Lachlan wolf-whistles— and when they break apart they pantomime embarrassment for the benefit of the audience, even though Robert doesn't feel the slightest trace of shame. Chrissie gives him a small, secretive smile and then turns to wave at some cousin or other, and the moment's passed. She's signaling a waiter over to get them champagne, graciously accepting congratulations from her London friends, smiling and nodding at the uncountable Whites' relatives and the half-a-dozen paid actors who make up Wentworth Taylor's much smaller clan. So Chrissie doesn't notice the clench of Robert's jaw, the incessant twitching of his fingers around the stem of his champagne glass. All the better, Robert thinks, Chrissie deserves to have her perfect night. He can at least give her that.

Attempts to focus on the party, on his con, on his exit plan all fail to even start. All he can see is Chrissie, bright beaming Chrissie, the most beautiful thing he's ever stolen and he can not afford to hold onto her, he doesn't want to give her up. He was standing right here mere ten days ago, his hand on the small of her back and his eyes far in the horizon, already counting millions he hadn't yet stolen, already listing all the places, spots and surfaces in Home Farm that he would fuck Chrissie on, in, against, under or around. And every day would bring the satisfaction of a well-done con, every minute he spent as Chrissie's husband would afford him another crevice of access, another inch of control. Looking at Chrissie now breaks his fucking heart, it does, but he's not quite sure of what, exactly, he resents losing more. Robert looks away from his drop-dead gorgeous bride, just in case she turns to talk to him and catches the bitter, bristling anger in his eye. Freezing fear has given way to a boiling fury, feverish mind scrambling to find somewhere to lay the blame, a target to aim for. He reads out the last week like a play, reviews every line that's led him to this rushed, unsatisfying third act. This was meant to be the beginning. It would have been, if Aaron hadn't showed up. It's _his_ fault, of course it's _Aaron's_ fault. 

Across the room, sitting with a group of kids his age who all look either mean, uncomfortable or just plain bored, Lachlan seems to have been waiting for Robert to catch his eye. Robert does a decent enough job of pretending not to notice and lets his gaze wander over the crowd, but he does see _Lucky_ 's cold, empty little smile. He doesn't allow himself to react, of course. Before he can dwell on the matter of Lachlan, Robert's eyes land on the second worst White: Lawrence's face is flushed red, his usually-trembling fingers gripping the champagne flute in a steady, if maybe too-firm grasp. 

Grateful for a distraction from his own woes, Robert speaks into Chrissie's ear again. "Is your dad alright?" He squints at the scene with genuine disconcert, can tell that some kind of argument is happening between Lawrence and… what was his name? He can't recall it, so instead he asks Chrissie, "Has he got a problem with that builder?" Next to Lawrence the man —Ricky? Bobby?— shakes his head, appears profoundly disappointed. Robert turns to offer Chrissie a smile, "You were too kind to invite him." 

She waves the compliment away with a flick of her hand, affecting a beatific little smile. "Oh, Ronnie's such a nice man." She does a better impression of humility than Robert, but there's always an air of superiority to her and he loves her for and in spite of that. He loves the sharp corners of her, pride and ambition and conceit, her scheming nature, the distance she puts between the world and herself. Chrissie, like Robert, is always searching for better futures elsewhere, always chasing the line where the world meets the sky. But she's also kind, loyal to her own detriment, generous and devoted. Her brow furrows with concern at the sight of her dad, and Robert thinks that Chrissie's probably the only person in the whole world who holds genuine affection for that man. He loathes to imagine how she'll react when the truth about her family comes out. "I don't know what's going on with dad," she admits, looking at Robert with big sad eyes. "Wish he could…" she chews at her bottom lip, throws Lawrence one last worried glance, "...chill out, at least for today."

"Try not to worry about it, yeah?" Robert reaches for her hand, traces the gold around her ring finger with his thumb as he offers his best reassuring smile, tries not to picture her reaction when she realizes that her husband is gone and not coming back. "Tonight it's just us," he says, and wonders if her lips will tremble just like this, if she'll look for him in the crowd with the same watery eyes. "And then tomorrow we're on our way to lounging on the beach for two weeks straight," he says, conjuring up a grin, and swallows the guilt back down. With a grateful smile and a soft peck to his lips, Chrissie untangles her hand from his and goes to grab her champagne. 

Everybody is at their tables already, snacking on bite-sized canapés and sipping on beer, champagne or wine. The actors who are passing off as Wentworth's distant relatives, business associates and (just the one) childhood friend have all been stellar so far, but the ceremony was the easy part. Here, now, sharing dining tables and conversation with Chrissie's friends and family, they better be acting their hearts out. 

The music fades into a background murmur as soon as Chrissie stands up and, following the DJ's cue, the chattering from the crowd quickly dies down. They already did their _oh_ -ing and _ah_ -ing when she walked down the aisle, but there's a new wave of whispering and sighing that Robert decides to interpret as people being in awe of Chrissie, and bitterly envious of him. Finally he feels something like the thrill he's been waiting for, wants to relish every drop of pride, but there's a sour aftertaste to it. It's Aaron's fault, he thinks, and grinds his molars together. All of it is Aaron's fault.

Chrissie clears her throat before giving the crowd an almost-bashful glance, and passes the champagne flute from her left hand to her right. Robert instinctively knows to reach for her, and she gives him a small and grateful smile as they lace their fingers, wedding band next to golden wedding band. Chrissie looks up, offers their guests a dazzling smile, and tightens her grasp on Robert's hand before finally beginning her toast. "I feel like wedding speeches are always meant to be funny, but I don't really think of myself as a funny person, so I'll leave the jokes to Wentworth. Instead, I'll just tell you how happy I am to be married to this man." She pauses to look at him, and tugs at his grasp a bit, so that they'll stop hiding their clasped hands behind their table's floral centerpiece. There's some loud swooning from some distant aunts of Chrissie near the back. 

Robert's stomach lurches when Chrissie untangles her fingers from his, for a brief moment he fears she's seen something in his face, realized that everything she knows about him is a lie. But her hand comes to graze his cheek briefly, and rests softly on his shoulder as her tender, intimate smile widens into a grin and she addresses the crowd. "We had a bit of a whirlwind romance at first, don't you think?" She laughs, shakes her head, turns to him for the briefest moment to give him a smile and then immediately back to their guests. "No, it was dreadfully normal, which after my first marriage was quite a relief actually." She clears her throat softly, and Robert finds himself blinking unfamiliar mistiness away from his eyes. "I gave up a long time ago thinking I'd find someone who actually respects me, but I met Wentworth and I fell in love." This time, when she looks at Robert, she holds his gaze and he feels himself cracking, feels the smile slipping and tears —real tears!— pool at the corners of his eyes. "Really fell in love and I wasn't expecting it at all."

She gives him a watery smile of her own, and Robert feels only relief when she looks away from him. Chrissie's hand on his shoulder is almost more weight that he can withstand. He tries to find something to focus on, allows his eyes to follow one of the waiters carrying empty bread baskets and bottles back into the kitchen. "I thought this is a nice man, I may as well ask him out for a meal, and here we are! Months down the line and we've tied the knot." Chrissie squeezes his shoulder softly, and Robert puts his hands over hers, acknowledges the touch without looking back at her. His eyes are on a waiter with his hair cropped short at the back, a familiar frame and build. For a second he swears he recognizes Aaron's walk. Only when the waiter disappears in the kitchen's direction does Robert gasp in a mouthful of air, becoming suddenly aware that he forgot to inhale for a moment there. He tells himself it couldn't be, turns his attention back to Chrissie's speech.

"He respects me, he trusts me, he encourages me, he loves me. What a dream, honestly," Chrissie says, and sighs. It takes his every last bit of willpower, but Robert manages to look up at her. She's looking back, and his heart —racing as it was at the mere _notion_ of Aaron— trips on its own feet. "So, here's to my partner, my confidante, the love of my life. My husband, Wentworth Taylor-White." She squeezes his shoulder, tilts her head, and it takes him a second to get his bearings but he quickly stands up, wraps an arm around her waist, raises his champagne flute. Chrissie drops a quick peck on his cheek before she turns to their guests, calls out, "Cheers!"

The cheers and whistles and the clink-clink-clinking of glass form an almost-musical little choir, it's such a perfect picture Robert has the impression everyone here must be aware that this whole thing is nothing but an act. That Chrissie must know, she _has_ to know that everything he's ever told her is a lie. His luck has to run out at some point, she _has_ to realize. Robert looks away from her because he thinks otherwise he might cry, he takes the glass to his mouth but stops before the champagne touches his lips. _There goes my luck_ , he thinks. Across the room, all the way in the back near the distant relations and the DJ, poorly-done bow tie around his neck and silver tray in hand, Ross is grinning at him. "Darling, it's your turn," Chrissie whispers into his ear, and Robert feels a shiver crawl up his spine. 

He puts the flute down, makes a show of looking away from Ross and gives her his very best smile. "Let me just enjoy this for a bit," Robert whispers. He makes an effort not to steal a glance in Ross' direction, thinking if Ross is here that must mean Aaron is too, right? and then he catches Chrissie's mouth in his and licks the taste of champagne off her tongue, tightens his arm around her waist, thinks he's going to make this kiss count.

Chrissie tips her champagne flute a little too far, pours a bit on the floor, and laughs into Robert's mouth as he takes the glass from her hand and puts it on the table. Chrissie's fingers are just finding their place in the hair at his nape when there's a loud clattering and a cascade of shattering glass, followed by a wave of gasps and a few startled squeals and squeaks. Then, Ross' loud and nasal, "Woah!" which, much to his chagrin, immediately makes Robert step away from his wife. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" the blonde woman who's just crashed into Ross exclaims, and then adds something else at a more normal volume, laughs, tries to pick up the now-empty tray while still holding onto her carry-on bag and only manages to drop her enormous black hat among the scattered shards of glass. 

Robert sees Ross pick up the hat and his tray, and say something to the woman; and he feels Chrissie suddenly step away from his side. He turns to look at her just in time to catch Chrissie's face quickly shifting from confusion, to realization, to the happiest-possible smile. "Rebecca!" she calls, already picking up the hem of her dress to rush around the table, and the people in the tables around them move their chairs and tuck their feet in to make way for the running bride. Meanwhile the woman accepts her hat from the waiter before turning and, at the sight of her sister, immediately drops both hat and carry-on in favor of rushing to meet Chrissie with open arms. After nearly five years without showing up for a single family event or holiday, Rebecca White greets her sister with her sunglasses still on and a cheerful, "Hi, sis!" that could just as well be her returning from a weekend at a nearby town. 

Robert is sure that Chrissie wants to be mad, and she probably will be later, and will doubtlessly save it for an argument many years down the line when it's useful for her to mention that Rebecca was late to her sister's own wedding —not just once, but twice. But right now she's all joy, joyful tears and joyful smile and joyful exclamation of, "I didn't think you'd make it!" as she hugs her sister very tightly and very briefly, then steps back, pulls the sunglasses off her sister's face, and Robert can only imagine that she looks at her sister's eyes with nothing but absolute wonder. Chrissie pinches her sister's cheeks with her free hand before they hug again, longer this time, and they spin and laugh like children would. They are just stepping apart when a very flushed Lawrence reaches their side, and Robert isn't really sure from where he's standing all the way by their table, but he swears there are tears in the old man's eyes. 

There are hugs and kisses and surely reproaches and apologies too, but he can't hear them. Robert is looking for Ross, and Ross is nowhere to be seen, and Robert's starting to feel physically sick. People have begun to stand up —some White cousins, aunts, and uncles wanting to greet Rebecca for sure; most of them just because they are nosey prats— and spotting the waiters in the crowd has gotten considerably harder. Robert thinks he'll make the uniform red vests next time, but he soon remembers that he won't be organizing any more dinner parties at Home Farm. Lawrence's voice gets his attention, and Robert sees the man gesturing for his grandson to get up from the table as he calls, "Lachlan! Come over here!" —there's a slur to his words that can be heard loud and clear— "Let's take a family picture!" 

Robert goes to sip at his champagne while he watches the scene: Lachlan pointedly rolling his eyes as he gets up, shoving his hands into his pockets and dragging his feet to meet his family at the centre of the room. But Chrissie has turned to look at Robert, and she doesn't see her son's exaggerated sulking, only Robert smiling at her over the rim of his champagne glass. Chrissie is flushed red with excitement and teary-eyed, grinning from ear to ear, and when she gestures for her husband to come join them Robert can't refuse. He nods at her, mouths that he'll be right there, and Chrissie beams at him before turning to smile at her son. Robert sees Lachlan reluctantly hug his aunt, puts his champagne flute down and starts making his way towards the Whites.

He slows his step so that they can get a family picture without him, so that Chrissie will have a picture of her and her sister's reunion that doesn't include the lying con-man who broke her heart, and thinks she deserves a picture without Lachlan and Lawrence, too. But the thought is interrupted by the sight of Chrissie's sister swiping the camera from the photographer's hands —the photographer protests, Chrissie pouts at her sister, Rebecca laughs it off and though he can't make out the words through all the noise, Robert thinks there's something awfully familiar about her voice. She's got her back to him, and Robert sends out a small prayer that he's not about to come face to face with a one night stand —it actually happened to him during a con once, and it almost landed him in jail.

"Everything alright?" he asks, trying to catch Chrissie's eye over her sister's shoulder, and when Chrissie looks at him Rebecca White turns right around too, long blonde hair whipping after her and nearly whacking Robert in the face. 

In the moment the woman takes to push the camera into her sister's hands and tell her, "One second," Robert has only enough time to either think _oh, for fuck's sake_ or brace, and he doesn't brace. Ellie Andersson throws her hand all the way back, puts her whole body behind the movement, and slaps the spit out of him. 

"Bex!" Chrissie yells over Lachlan's cackles, "What are you doing?"

Ellie —real name Rebecca White, apparently— gestures towards Robert, asks, " _This_ is your husband?" and, before Chrissie can even respond, shoves a sharp accusing index finger into Robert's face. "His name isn't Wentworth, Chrissie. His name's Jake, and he's a car thief." Ellie glares at him, long-festering resentment like poison in her eyes, and Robert can almost hear her unsaid _cheating, lying, backstabbing son of a bitch_. She's said it before.

"What are you talking about?" Chrissie asks, her pitch already a little higher, a little louder. Robert is still rubbing at the burning skin over his cheekbone, but he begins shifting his weight backward, steals a glance around them even as he's putting on his well-practiced guileless face. 

He uses his stage voice, plays up the cluelessness. "I think you have me confused with someone else," he tells their audience as much as he tells Ellie. The woman he called a partner once, the one he double-crossed, looks ready to slap him again for that. She opens her mouth surely to throw a curse at him, but the response comes in Ross' thick northern accent over the speakers, loud enough to drown out everything else. 

"Oh, I don't think she does." 

Ellie —Rebecca, he corrects himself— gasps and Robert finds himself turning towards her instinctively, finds her struggling not to smile at him. "Well, maybe this place isn't so dull after all!" she says, and for a moment they are partners again, and Robert grins back at her without thinking. Then he meets Chrissie's eye, and finds his wife looking at him like she's seeing him for the first time. Robert's heart drops. 

A recorded audio begins to play just as loudly as Ross' voice, now slightly saturated, ambient noise playing back too. _I think about that a lot. Killing someone_ , Lachlan says over the speakers. The crowd responds with whispers and gasps. _Someone in general, but you do take centre stage quite a lot. Wentworth as well._ _Mum sometimes too_ , Lachlan's recorded voice says, and Robert sees Chrissie go ghost-pale under her make up. Chrissie's voice breaks around her son's name, and Robert realizes that Lachlan is glaring furiously at something over Robert's own shoulder. He turns on his heel just as his own voice begins playing from every speaker in the room. _How many, Lachlan? How many girls have you stalked and harassed and scared?_

He's not surprised to see Ross at the DJ table, grinning from ear to ear. _Lawrence covered up what you did to Fiona_ ; Robert hears himself say, as his eyes are drawn away from Ross. Two steps behind him, in the cheap black suit and the white dress shirt with the undone collar, beard noticeably thicker, less gel in his hair, Aaron tilts his champagne flute at Robert. He's trying to keep his face blank but Robert can see the cracks in it —the clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Aaron's too angry to enjoy this, Robert realizes, and he finds some kind of solace in the idea that neither of them has gotten what he wants.

He has the briefest thought of —no, he couldn't. Still, he hesitates a second before turning around, finds Lawrence gone and Chrissie's eyes on him, big and blue and brimming with tears. He thinks _no, I wasn't supposed to see this part_.

 _You think Fiona's the worst of it? She was just a teasing bitch who couldn't admit what she wanted_ ; Lachlan sneers in the recording, and the first tear starts rolling down Chrissie's cheek, realisation slowly dawning on her before Robert's eyes, and Robert has the urge to move toward her, to offer his open arms for her to shelter in. _Thanks for sweeping all that under the rug by the way. As if I did anything wrong. I just liked Fiona and that bitch…_ Robert takes one step forward, hands raised and her name ready on his lips, when his own recorded voice fills the room again. _Lawrence is my mark, so you better step out or I'll blow your set-up._ —A skip in the recorded ambient noise and a change in the quality of the sound give away that this recording is narrowly clipped.— _You're stealing my con!_ Chrissie sees him approaching and immediately recoils, and the same audio starts again, clipped again, _Lawrence is my mark. My con_ , and then again, _My mark, my con_ , and again, _My mark, my con_

When his voice gives way to Lachlan's — _You think I can't kill you and get away with it?_ — he feels as if he could finally breathe again for the first time in an age, and just about as he gasps in a mouthful of air he realizes that recording wasn't from the day he wore the wire. It lands on him like a punch to the gut, he staggers backward, turns around with his hands stretched out like a drunk man. But now the DJ table is empty, and Lachlan's voice is still playing, saying, _Granddad would be happy to help me get rid of you. He covered up a hit and run already,_ and Robert is aware that Chrissie is saying —yelling— something but it's completely unintelligible, her voice so shrill only dogs can hear her at this point. _Poor bloke didn't even do anything wrong. I just saw him and thought —why not?_

Now the guests are talking and pointing and recording with their phones, all moving around, stumbling upon distressed-looking waiters and waitresses, making it impossible for Robert to find Aaron among the whole squirming lot of them. _You're worse than me_ , the Lachlan in the recording says as Robert turns on his heel looking for Aaron, and his eyes skip over the argument happening between Chrissie and her son, over Ellie — _Bex!_ — trying to get a word in, over what looks like Lawrence and Bob the Builder or whatever having a screaming match. _You are so much worse. If I killed you, you'd deserve it._ He can't find Aaron anywhere, he can't see Ross either, he feels the bile rising up his throat. _I hope you know that, granddad. You'd deserve it._ Robert sees the handyman forcefully tear his arm away from Lawrence's grasp, sees Chrissie pushing her sister away from her, and just as the audio starts to play from the beginning ( _I think about that a lot. Killing someone._ ) he spots Ross near his and Chrissie's table. Not two steps from Robert, a man trips into a waitress and knocks the tray off her hands. Lachlan grabs her mother's arm and Chrissie screams at him. Robert looks back to where he guesses Ross will be, knows he'll lose him if he doesn't move now. He turns, nearly lunges, shoves at Lachlan's shoulder. Lachlan lets go of his mum and grabs a handful of Robert's suit instead. Not-Ellie-but-Bex catches Chrissie when she stumbles backwards, and wraps her sister in a hug. 

"I was right about you," Lachlan spits at Robert, over their heads his recorded voice says _Someone in general, but you do take centre stage quite a lot. Wentworth as well._ _Mum sometimes too._ Robert is about to say something, tell the little psychopath to take a look around him and see the consequences of his actions catching up to him, but a loud booming bang nearly blows his eardrums and then everyone is screaming, ducking, running away from the source of the gunshot. 

Dust and bits of plaster snowing down around him, Lawrence has gotten up on a chair to pull one of the hunting rifles off its mount on the wall, and didn't bother getting off it before he fired said rifle into the ceiling. Even before Lawrence screams out a slurred and furious order to turn the recording off, Robert can tell the old man is drunk. He's not the only one who's noticed, of course, a waiter and the handyman —Richie? Roland?— apparently trying to talk him down. Robert feels the briefest curiosity about those two, immediately discards it in favor of dodging a stampede of panicked guests. The sound finally cuts off ( _Lawrence covered up what you d…_ ) as several screaming women cut between him and Lachlan. Robert puts as much distance between Lachlan and himself as possible, turns to look around the room and finds it has fallen into complete and utter chaos.

Guests are harassing the waiters and waitresses for their coats and their cars, the valet is nowhere to be found, the wedding planner is making her escape towards the kitchen backdoor. And Robert finally finds Aaron, near the back of the room, speaking at no-one in particular, his comm given away by the way he instinctively reaches for his ear. The front door is Robert's most obvious exit, the crowd is pushing that way already, but he finds himself turning one way and then the other, sparing his wife a too-brief glance before he looks towards the back and finds that Ross has just pushed a waitress out of the way and stepped up to Aaron's side. 

Aaron scowls at the bloke and says something between his teeth, Ross points towards the kitchen door two tables away, shows Aaron something Robert can't see. They both turn and begin moving towards the kitchen. Robert steps forward without thinking.

"Stay where you are!" Lawrence's voice is loud and strained and surprisingly close, close enough that Robert is actually startled into turning around. He finds that the old man has managed to get off the chair without breaking his neck or losing hold of the gun, and is now trying to shrug the handyman's grasp off his shoulder while he aims the rifle in Robert's general direction. "You won't get away with this!" Lawrence yells, waving the long hunting gun around, and Robert looks for cover, finds he's not particularly close to any tables or chairs. He offers his hands up, makes a pacifying motion; and Lawrence bristles at it, yells, "Ronnie, call the police!"

Robert scoffs. 

"The police?" he asks, and even if the sight of the old handyman pulling out his mobile sends a cold sweat trickling down his spine, Robert forces out a laugh. "Oh, I reckon you're coming down with me, old man."

"Yeah, dad," Rebecca lets go of Chrissie, and shoots Robert a quick, loaded glance as she moves to flank Lawrence's left side, Ronnie taking the phone up to his ear on the old man's right. Rebecca tries to meet the handyman's eyes, reaches out a hand to place it over her father's hand on the barrel of the rifle, says in what's trying and failing to be a calm tone, "I don't the police's a good idea."

Robert nods towards Rebecca, sees that a table's been pushed aside and now a shorter path towards the kitchen has cleared out. He thinks it's now or never, takes the opening. 

"No, you don't," Lachlan barks out, fingers closing around Robert's arm like a clamp and pulling him back around; and there's the loud bang again, so much more closer now, it makes Robert's ears ring painfully. More screaming this time, a lot more too. Robert isn't sure that the high-pitch alarm he's hearing isn't actually Chrissie's voice. He thinks it may be sirens, and then realizes it's not his eardrums that hurt. 

Robert doubles over, clutches at his abdomen. His shirt is warm and wet to the touch, his fingers dig into it, and for a moment he swears he can feel his heartbeat but then he realizes it's blood, spurting out of him in short, sporadic little bursts. Robert looks down, finds that he can't make sense of the landscape of red painted over his stomach, and looks back up. As if the crowd had decided to keep the path to the kitchen open just for them, Robert finds Aaron looking back at him at the other side of Robert's would-be escape, Aaron's eyes bright and bluer than any sky Robert's ever seen. And he thinks the sight is almost comical, Aaron stuck mid-motion like a kid playing statues, feet pointed towards the kitchen and the rest of his body twisting on its axis so he can look back over his shoulder, all just to see Robert gasp in a shaking breath and drop to his knees. 

There are hands on Robert's shoulders, a hand on Aaron's arm, Chrissie is saying "Oh, my God, Wentworth," and Ellie is urging, "Stay with me. Jake! Stay—" and all the way across the room Ross is holding up a black velvet case and gesturing for Aaron to follow. When he doesn't, Ross tugs at his arm, but Aaron doesn't budge. Robert has the notion that if he reaches forward, he'll be close enough to put his hand on Aaron's shoulder, and Aaron will stay. 

So he tries to reach out, but his hand doesn't move. It's too heavy, his head is too heavy, and he's already bent at the waist so now his whole body is tipping forward, folding, crumbling down. Aaron turns his head to look back at Ross, and that's the last thing Robert sees before everything goes black.

* * *

He's in a car, and he's bleeding. It's the car that he becomes aware of first, the seat vibrating under his back, his legs awkwardly tucked between the two front seats, someone's hands applying pressure on his gut. His gut that's still bleeding. He's not sure if his eyes are open or closed but it's still pitch black and his ears are still ringing, but it's not Chrissie's voice and it's not sirens and it's not an alarm. He thinks he may be screaming out loud, and then he thinks he may be passing out. 

Now it's not a car, it doesn't feel like a backseat. But it's still a moving vehicle, every bump of the road makes it feel like the bullet inside his abdomen is tumbling around like a pair of running shoes inside a washing machine. Somebody's screaming and he can't put a name to the voice, someone else is muttering unintelligible words through his teeth and Robert thinks or says _Aaron_ , tries to turn toward the sound. He realizes he's being held down only when he tries to push against the hands on his shoulder and arm, and opens his eyes to see the needle go into the skin under his ribs, then realizes he's inside a van. It takes Robert about fifteen seconds to remember why there's a hole in his abdomen, and by then the anesthetic has begun to kick in, and the pain goes from a hotpoke piercing all the way through his torso to a burning cigarette pressing into the skin. 

Robert knows Ross is the one who just administered the anesthetic, so it's easy for his brain to put a name to his voice when he yells, "Look, mate, he's gonna die if you don't put your flamin' foot down!" even though his face is terribly blurry when Robert looks at him. He realizes there are tears pooling in his eyes and he tries to blink them away, turns his head and finds a still-blurry Aaron clutching onto Robert's arm with blood-stained hands.

Robert is vaguely aware of a third person at the wheel, maybe cussing at traffic; and he's more clearly conscious of the hands on his stomach, _in_ his stomach, gloved fingers digging around inside the bullet wound to try and pull the slug out. Robert feels himself start to slip again, wants to thank Aaron for getting him out, wants to clean the tears from Aaron's face, and he tries to lift his hand but the failed attempt alone costs him the last of his energy, and suddenly his eyelids are too heavy to hold them up.

"Robert, I'm sorry," Aaron says, and Robert feels blood-sticky fingers grabbing at his face. It's easier to process the words now that the world has gone black again, to focus on Aaron's touch and let the sounds wash over him. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault—" 

"Babe, not right now," Ross interrupts. "Just tell him to keep his eyes open."

Robert tries to say he's got his bloody eyes open, babbles some nonsense, relishes another second of blessed black before he actually opens his eyes. He finds Aaron's hands red, his white dress shirt with the collar undone also red, a smear of that red on his cheek too. Robert's eyes roll back into his head and once again everything is black, black, black.

Now Aaron sounds further away, muffled, like he's speaking from the other side of a wall. "If he dies, I—" 

"Shut up and stay calm, Aaron." Ross' voice is so distant and so small it could be a radio host speaking from a car passing by the van. "Talk to him normal. Adam, drive!"

He thinks he hears Aaron saying his name again, saying his name, his name, _his_ name, and then everything is as silent as it is black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, we haven't started working on any of the sequels yet (see the closing notes for the tentative list), but that just means that you have more time to watch all 77 episodes of hit tv show leverage (2008-2012). so, actually, you guys should be _thanking_ us.
> 
> wait, guys. guys. put down the pitchforks. there's no need for violence.

**Author's Note:**

> **next on the Honour Among Thieves verse:**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> _The Bullet Wound Job_ , inspired by Leverage s05e08, "The Broken Wing Job"
> 
> _The Christmas Carol Job_ , inspired by Leverage s03e14, "The Ho Ho Ho Job"
> 
> _The Lonely Hearts Job_ , inspired by Leverage s02e10, "The Runway Job"; and Magnum PI s02e16, "Farewell to Love"
> 
> _The Rashomon Job_ , inspired by Leverage s03e11; and _The Miracle Job_ , inspired by Leverage s01e14
> 
> _The Henderson Challenge_ , inspired by Hustle s03e02
> 
> _The Morning After Job_ , inspired by Leverage s03e13; and _The Jailhouse Job_ , inspired by Leverage s03e01
> 
> _The Vegas Job_ , inspired by (you guessed it) "Ocean's 11"
> 
>   
> 
> 
> **a word from the authors | last update: december 23rd 2020**
> 
>   
> it's been a little over two weeks since the last chapter went up, and it was tuagh's birthday just yesterday. a good a day as any to make a closing note, i guess. i did my best to reply to at least the first of the many sweet, hilarious, and enraged comments y'all left us. i'm gonna be honest with you guys and with myself, and admit i probably won't be getting back to anyone else. however, i (we!) do read and appreciate every single comment, even the ones threatening our lives.  
> the good news: we have a few hundred words of the first sequel already written, and just about every sequel listed below has a scene-by-scene outline. it goes without saying that robert will survive that bullet wound. and since we are making promises, i do want to clarify that robert and aaron are our planned endgame.  
> the bad news: after something like three months of non-stop working on this, we finished it and jumped right into another goddamn fanfiction, and are currently writing a 60-chapter canon divergence; so we may not actually publish that first sequel for a while.  
> anyway, yeah, we hope some of you will show up for the bullet wound job, whenever it finally goes up, and we are delighted to know so many of you guys are leverage fans. you'll be recognizing some cons, no doubt. thank you again for reading, sorry for the cliffhanger, all of that. also, tuagh is begging you all to stop being mean to ross. they leave you with the following message: 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> **find us on social media:**  
> [@puentera](https://twitter.com/puentera) (drea, prose); and [@bisexualrossbarton](https://bisexualrossbarton.tumblr.com)/[@birossbarton](https://twitter.com/birossbarton) (tuagh, dialogues).


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